Diana came thundering down the stairs and burst into the kitchen. Her mother, she knew, had left for work early this morning – if she was going to work, that was. Diana thought it was her mother’s day off, but Christmas was getting near and the staff at the restaurant were frantically busy, so when Diana had woken to find Emmy already dressed and about to depart, she had assumed that she was working overtime to help out.
As she entered the kitchen, Aunty Beryl looked up from her morning task of cutting Charlie’s carry-out – Wally had already left – and smiled at her. Charlie had managed to get a job as a delivery boy for a local butcher, Mrs Sparks on Limekiln Lane, and usually left for work at the same time as the rest of the family left for school. ‘You’re early, love,’ Beryl said cheerfully. ‘Your mam rushed off early, too; she’s probably wanting to get some Christmas shopping done before she starts work at the restaurant. Want some porridge? You’ll have to ladle out your own ’cos I’m cutting Charlie’s sarnies.’
Diana went over to the stove and dipped the big ladle into the black porridge pot. ‘I know I’m early, and it’s ’cos I wanted a word with you before Charlie and the rest come down,’ she said. She carried her bowl of porridge over to the table and settled herself before it. ‘Aunty Beryl, what’s the matter with me mam? I’m worried in case she’s getting ill again or in case she’s going to do something stupid, like agreeing to marry that Carl. You know he invited us to go to Sweden?’
‘Yes, I did know; but since your mam says she’s going to turn down his invitation, that shouldn’t worry you overmuch,’ Beryl said placidly, continuing to slice bread and spread margarine and meat paste. ‘What do you mean, you’re afraid she might be getting ill again? Her last check-up was real good, she told me.’
‘I know. It’s – it’s just that she doesn’t always listen when I’m speaking to her,’ Diana said, her spoon suspended over the porridge. ‘It’s as though she was thinking of something else, something more important, and though I’m only a kid, what I say is important – to me, at any rate. Does she do that to you, Aunty Beryl? I mean, ask you a question and then not listen to your answer . . . stuff like that.’
Beryl laughed. ‘Just because someone’s a bit absent-minded, a bit turned in on themselves like, that doesn’t make them ill,’ she said. ‘And yes, your mam acts absent-minded with me as well as with you. The fact is, queen, Emmy’s got rather a lot on her mind right now. For the first time in her life, the thing she wants most isn’t going to be handed to her on a plate. So, of course, she’s spending a lot of time wondering what went wrong and how she can put it right.’
Diana gave this pronouncement some thought as she spooned porridge, then looked up at Beryl with a puzzled frown. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said plaintively. ‘What hasn’t she got handed to her on a plate? And why is she turned in on herself?’
‘I telled you; because she thinks she must have done something wrong . . . no, not wrong exactly. Oh, Diana, me love, I can’t really explain but I think, in a way, your mam’s growin’ up.’
‘Growing up?’ Diana said, now completely bewildered. ‘But she is grown up, Aunty Beryl . . . she’s old. Well, not terribly old, but she isn’t a kid.’
Beryl sighed and began to wrap Charlie’s carry-out in a piece of greaseproof paper. ‘Just you take my word for it, queen, that there’s nowt wrong wi’ your mam and she isn’t going to marry anyone all in a rush. What’s more, I’d bet a pound to a shilling that neither of you will be going off to Sweden when summer comes, so you can stop worrying over that as well. Want to toast yourself a round of bread?’ She cocked her head as the sound of boots came thundering down the stairs. ‘Here come the heavy brigade, expectin’ their breakfast on the table so’s they can guzzle it down an’ gerroff in good time. Be a pal, Di, and dish up some bowls of porridge for me.’
Diana set about the task, aware of a feeling of relief. She did love her Aunty Beryl, who was always so sensible, so kind. She had managed to put all of Diana’s fears at rest. She had as good as said that Mammy wasn’t ill and wasn’t going to marry anyone, either. It also sounded as though her mother meant to give Carl his marching orders, which was marvellous. Diana carried the first bowl of porridge to the table just as Charlie and Lenny burst into the room, getting stuck in the doorway and cursing each other as they jostled and shoved. ‘Stop mucking about, you two, and don’t you go barging into me, Charlie Fisher, ’cos I don’t want porridge all down me decent skirt,’ Diana said briskly, beginning to fill the second bowl. ‘I dunno, boys act more like wild animals than human beings.’ She smiled across at Becky as the child came dreamily into the kitchen in Bobby’s wake, her cardigan half on and half off, one boot on her foot and the other in her hand. ‘You two ought to take a lesson from our Becky. She doesn’t shove and push or shout and swear, but I bet she’s ready for school while you lads are still squabbling over who’s got the most porridge.’
Since Charlie and Lenny were even now disputing who should have the larger bowl, Diana was sure she would presently be proved right. She settled Becky in her chair, having first straightened her cardigan and buttoned it correctly, then knelt on the floor and began to push Becky’s foot into her boot, remarking as she did so that the younger girl could do with a new pair. ‘Feet do grow at such a rate, don’t they, Aunty Beryl?’ she said, tying Becky’s laces into a neat bow and getting to her feet. ‘Now don’t hurry, Becky, or you’ll spill porridge on your nice clean cardy. Want some milky tea?’
Becky replied that she did and presently the two girls hurried out of the kitchen, Diana’s arm looped affectionately round the younger girl’s waist. As she had prophesied, the boys were still at the table, eating bread and marge, talking with their mouths full and occasionally taking a pull at their tea.
‘I ’spec they’ll be late, Di, like you said they would,’ Becky remarked, as they crossed the court and turned into Raymond Street. ‘The boys is nearly always late, ain’t they, Di? They doesn’t seem to care like us girls does.’
Diana chuckled. For all Becky was so slow in some things, she was sharp as a needle in others. She was still in the infants’ class, painfully learning to read and write, though she was making big strides at both, and Diana reflected that another good thing about her mother’s not marrying was that she would be able to remain with the Fishers. Diana still admired Charlie very much and was on excellent terms with Lenny, but now that she was growing up she got enormous satisfaction from taking care of Becky, and teaching her as much as the child’s brain would hold. As they hurried along the street, she began to teach Becky a little poem which her mother had taught her when she was four or five. Becky was ten now but Diana knew that her mental age was a good deal less – knew also that she would enjoy learning the poem. ‘I’m going to teach you a little verse, Becky, as we go to and from school,’ she said instructively. ‘It’s a lovely poem, all about flowers . . . and you love flowers, don’t you, queen?’
Becky nodded. ‘Yes, I does love flowers; an’ I loves you, too,’ she said, in her flat little voice. ‘Tell me the poem then, Di.’
Diana was touched by Becky’s affection and gave her hand a squeeze before beginning to recite the poem. ‘It goes like this:
Little brown seed, oh little brown brother,
Are you awake in the dark?
Here we lie cosily, close to each other
Hark to the song of the lark.’
Becky listened intently, then began to repeat the words, and Diana, nodding encouragement, thought how nice it was to have a little sister who loved you and looked up to you, even if she wasn’t your real sister. Becky came to the end of the second line and stopped short, and Diana gave her a hug. ‘You are clever, Becky,’ she said admiringly. ‘Why, you said those two lines just as good as I could. Say ’em once more and then we’ll start on the next two.’
*
Beryl watched the two girls leave the kitchen, a smile hovering. She reflected how Diana’s attitude to Becky had changed over the years and told herself that it was not only Emmy who was growing up. Diana might be only eleven but she was a real little mother to Becky. Once, Beryl had worried a great deal when she had agreed to let Becky start school. She had known how cruel children can be and knew, also, that Becky would not know how to complain to authority if she was bullied, beaten or mocked. On Becky’s first day, however, Beryl had wandered along at playtime and had been delighted, and relieved, to see Becky and Diana, their hands tightly clasped, queuing up for a turn at hopscotch. She had watched as Diana showed Becky how to throw the slate into the square she wanted and how Diana had squashed another girl who had tried to shoulder in first. When the children had come home that afternoon, she had asked Becky what she thought of school and the child had replied, with her usual transparent honesty, that it were nice. ‘Teacher were kind to me. I chalked on the board and made a castle of bricks,’ she had said. ‘Can I go back tomorrer?’
‘Mam, me shoelace has bust. Is there a bit of string in the drawer?’ Bobby’s voice broke into Beryl’s thoughts, and for the next ten minutes she was far too busy getting the boys off to school to think about anything else. Charlie got himself off to work and was never late, because he brought his delivery bicycle home each night and cycled off at top speed each morning.
‘Young Diana was right; you’re going to be late, as usual,’ Beryl scolded the other three, bundling them out of the door when they would have lingered. ‘No, Lenny, you can’t come back for that tatty old football. You aren’t supposed to take it to school, anyway. Now, off wi’ you, and you’d best run because I don’t want no more complaints from Father Ignatius that the Fishers is always late.’
Returning to the kitchen, Beryl got out her flat irons and stood them in a row by the fire to heat whilst she cleared away the breakfast things and washed up. Then she put a blanket on the kitchen table, covered it with an old piece of sheeting, and went over to her laundry basket. It was warm in the kitchen and the top tablecloth was almost dry, but the rest were nicely damp still and would iron up a treat. Beryl picked up the first iron and spat on it; yes, it would do nicely. She shifted all the other irons up one, tucked the almost dry tablecloth beneath the others, picked up the second cloth, and set to work, reflecting as she did so that she could have done this job in her sleep. The long, smooth sweeps of the iron continued until the cloth was finished. Then she folded it neatly, placed it carefully in her big wicker basket, and began on the next. She glanced, a trifle anxiously, at Freddie, playing with the wooden cars Charlie had made for him, but he was absorbed, so she continued with her work, letting her mind wander. She had suspected for some time that Mr Mac was sweet on Emmy and had been truly astonished – and dismayed – when Emmy had told her that Mr Mac was going to get married. At first, she had felt quite angry with Emmy for never really noticing her boss as a human being. He had confided in Beryl once, when they had travelled back from Llandudno together on the train, that he blamed himself for Emmy’s illness. ‘I knew she was in difficult financial circumstances and thought that the best help I could give would be to employ her for more hours. Evening work is better paid so I saw to it that she was given evening work, never even suspecting that it was too much for her. Of course I cursed myself for a fool when someone pointed out how thin and pale she was getting, but when I tried to reduce her hours she seemed more upset than delighted. So I thought . . . I thought . . .’
Beryl had nodded, understanding Mr Mac’s dilemma. ‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ she had said. ‘She were that difficult and bad-tempered, not like her usual sunny self at all. Why, she even fell out wi’ me, her closest friend, took Diana away from me, wouldn’t let me so much as pass the time of day with the kid. Naturally, I were cut to the quick, but instead of trying to find out what the trouble were, I took offence. I thought two could play at that game and when we passed in the street, or even in the court, I kept me eyes to meself. I knew she were meetin’ that Carl pretty reg’lar and I telled meself that now she’d got a feller she didn’t want her old friend no more. So you see, if anyone was to blame, it were me. And when I did see her – after she’d collapsed, I mean – you could ha’ knocked me down with a feather.’ She had smiled at him across the railway carriage. ‘So don’t you go blaming yourself, Mr Mac. Why, she’s had no more reg’lar visitor than you since she’s been in the sanny, and she enjoys your visits that much, I’ve been quite jealous at times.’
Mr Mac had made some non-committal reply and changed the subject, but Beryl had noticed how his eyes had softened when he spoke of her friend. She had thought him to be merely taking a fatherly interest in Emmy, for she knew he had no kids of his own, but lately she had begun to suspect that his affection for Emmy was a good deal warmer than mere friendship. After all, no matter what he might say, there was no reason for his taking Emmy house-hunting if, as Emmy had said, he intended to marry someone else. Beryl knew enough about human nature to realise how bitterly a fiancée would resent her intended’s taking another woman round the property in which she meant to live.
Beryl finished another tablecloth, folded it and laid it on the first. The trouble with Emmy was that she was incapable of putting herself in anyone else’s shoes. She might conjure up horrible pictures – or even pleasant ones – of the woman her boss meant to marry, but she would simply never wonder how such a woman would feel if she found out that Mr Mac was asking another woman’s opinion on the house they were to share. Neither would it occur to her, in a million years, that Mr Mac was acting completely out of character. After all, why should he take one of his employees into his confidence over such a personal matter? Why should he hire a taxi to facilitate their days out? For that matter, why should he treat her to delightful meals, trips out into the country, and other nice things, if he was truly planning to marry someone else? No, the more Beryl thought about it, the more she suspected that Emmy’s employer was playing a rather clever double game. Because Emmy had only thought of him as her elderly boss, he had been unable to court her as Johnny and Carl had. Mr Mac probably imagined that any attempt on his part to appear interested in Emmy as a woman would have resulted either in her trying to change her job, or in great embarrassment to them both. And he might well have been right at that, Beryl concluded, finishing off another tablecloth and spreading out the next. The truth was that Emmy had never even considered Mr Mac as a suitor because to her he was simply her boss. When visiting her at the sanatorium, he had behaved with great decorum, making sure of her comfort, treating her, in fact, like a favourite niece. Beryl assumed this was because, had he behaved otherwise, it might have made things very difficult when Emmy returned to the restaurant. Beryl imagined that he had not, at that time, fully realised the extent of his own feelings towards her friend. That had only come upon her return to Liverpool and now Mr Mac was making up for lost time, treating Emmy as a beautiful and desirable woman, hoping that she would begin to see him not just as a friend and employer, but as a lover.
Beryl finished the tablecloth and pulled out the next one. It was worn and old, with a tear quite a foot long right across the middle. I’ll make it into four table napkins, she decided, rough ironing the material and laying it aside. Ella, from Bonner’s Tea Rooms, was always grateful for any little mending jobs Beryl might do, and would pay a bit extra for the task. Beryl began to iron the next tablecloth. She was pretty sure that her friend no longer intended to marry either Johnny or Carl, and she was equally sure that Emmy was jealous as a cat whenever she thought of Mr Mac’s marrying someone else. She also believed that Emmy was regarding Mr Mac more and more fondly, was probably already a little in love with him. What she did not know was whether Emmy understood her own feelings. In Beryl’s opinion, her friend had never known the sort of breathless, helpless love which she and Wally had shared when they were young. Emmy had been dazzled by Peter’s good looks, position and experience. Oh, she had loved him in a way, but had always been a little in awe of him. When he died, she had been heartbroken, but her loss had not blighted her life. Now, Beryl wondered irreverently if Emmy would recognise love if it jumped up and bit her on the nose. If not, she found herself pitying Mr Mac deeply, because a little butterfly who flitted over the surface of life, never soaring to the heights or plumbing the depths, would be a poor mate for a man of strong passions like Mr Mac.
Beryl stood her iron back by the fire and picked up the next one, astonished by her own thoughts. Emmy was her best friend; she had known her all her life, knew that there was a great deal of good in the younger girl. It had taken courage not to accept an offer of marriage from someone with money and position, like Carl, she reminded herself. At one time, Emmy had been desperate for any sort of financial help, which was why she had taken the job in the restaurant. For a girl brought up to believe that she was a cut above everyone else in her neighbourhood, working as a waitress had been a brave thing to do as well. And despite the difficulties, Beryl knew that Diana had never wanted for anything which Emmy could give her, and that included both attention and love.
On the hearthrug, Freddie crashed his cars together and got to his feet. He wandered over to the table and jerked at Beryl’s skirt. ‘Goin’ out?’ he enquired hopefully. ‘Mammy goin’ out? Freddie go too?’
Beryl smiled at her little son, but resolutely continued to work. ‘Presently, old feller,’ she promised. ‘We’ll do our messages as soon as I’ve finished the Bonner tablecloths. You play with your cars till Mammy’s ready, there’s a good boy.’
Freddie, a placid, sweet-tempered little boy, nodded solemnly and returned to his game on the hearthrug. Beryl leaned over the fireguard and changed irons once again. She had told Diana that her mother was growing up and now she realised that the remark had been very true. Part of Emmy’s undoubted appeal had been her innocent acceptance of male admiration. Now, the fact that Mr Mac seemed, to Emmy, to be immune to her charms was causing her to be a little more self-critical. Perhaps it’s good for everyone to have doubts, Beryl told herself. Emmy’s brave, bright, pretty as a picture, but not her dearest friend could call her modest or unassuming. Now, because she does have doubts, she’s a far nicer person than she was.
Having decided that a little uncertainty was actually good for her friend, Beryl put the whole matter out of her mind and finished the rest of her ironing in record time. She packed her work carefully into the long basket, covering it with a stout piece of American cloth. Then she dressed Freddie in his outdoor clothes, put on her own coat and hat, and carried the small boy and the basket over to the rickety old pram. I’ll kill two birds with one stone, she decided, tucking Freddie under the waterproof cover and erecting the hood. I’ll deliver my work and then do my messages, and after that, I’ll pop into Mac’s and see how Emmy’s getting on; if she’s working, that is. I told Diana she might be Christmas shopping, but the truth is she were in such a rush to get off this morning that we scarcely exchanged a word. I might treat myself to a pot of tea while I’m in Mac’s, because by then I’ll need a sit-down.
Beryl did as she planned, popping into the restaurant at eleven o’clock, and finding it crowded with Christmas shoppers. She looked towards the cash desk and was only slightly surprised to see that Emmy was not there. Old Mrs Mac, very erect and smiling, sat by the till.
Beryl hovered for a moment, then decided to have a cup of tea anyway, and waited until a plump woman in a scarlet headscarf vacated her seat. Beryl, with Freddie in her arms, hastily took the woman’s place, and asked Freda for tea for herself and a biscuit for the baby. ‘I see Emmy’s got her day off, for all you’re so busy,’ she observed. ‘Good thing the old lady’s fit again or you’d ha’ been scrattin’ around to find someone to mind the till.’
Freda beamed at her. ‘It ain’t only Emmy what’s off, of course; Mr Mac’s not in now, on a Tuesday,’ she said. ‘D’you know he’s house-hunting? He wants a place in the country where he can relax from time to time, so whenever Mr Mac’s off, the feller he’s employed to help out, his cousin, comes in for practice, like.’
‘Oh, I see. What’s he like, this other chap?’ Beryl asked curiously, as two more customers left the table and Freda began to clear the used crockery on to her tray. ‘Emmy’s not said much.’
‘He’s awright,’ Freda said, resting the laden tray on her hip. ‘If you look towards the office . . . that’s him, the feller what just come out. He’s learnin’ fast; took to it like a duck to water, you might say. But I can’t stand here chattin’ ’cos you know the rules. Shan’t be a mo.’
Beryl sat back in her chair; Freda had given her considerable food for thought. The staff clearly didn’t know that Emmy had accompanied their boss in his search for a house, far less that Mr Mac and Emmy were probably together today. Beryl smiled to herself. Lately, Emmy had said more than once that she did not mean to marry either Johnny or Carl. Beryl had taken this with a pinch of salt, but now she decided Emmy had been speaking no more than the truth, even if she herself did not know it. Another clue, now that she thought about it, was that Emmy had not mentioned Mr Mac’s cousin, and that was because Mr Mac’s cousin came in when Mr Mac was out and when Mr Mac was out, Emmy must be out as well. Beryl’s smile broadened; the plot thickens, she thought gleefully, just as Freda arrived back at her table with her pot of tea and the boy’s biscuit. Oh aye, the plot thickens all right!
It would be an exaggeration to say that Emmy and Mr Mac had seen hundreds of houses, but they had certainly viewed most of the properties being offered for sale at the moment. Emmy was beginning to get confused, so when they climbed into the taxi after viewing the third house of the day and Mr Mac suggested that they should have a break, she gladly agreed with him. ‘They’re all beginning to run together in my head,’ she said apologetically. ‘I find myself trying to visualise the kitchen in so and so street, or the master bedroom in what’s its name street, and finding that I’m probably really thinking of a house over the opposite side of the city.’
She laughed, and Mr Mac laughed with her. ‘That’s why I suggested we have a break,’ he told her. ‘I thought we might go to Chester, take a look at the shops – do some Christmas shopping, if anything takes your fancy – have some lunch, and come back so you’re in time to help Beryl make the tea. Does that appeal?’
‘Oh, it does,’ Emmy breathed. Then her eye was caught by the address on the next house they would have visited. ‘Oh, but . . . I wonder if we might view just one more house, Mr Mac? Only it’s in Sydenham Avenue, which is next to Lancaster Avenue. We lived there before my husband died, you know. It’s a good neighbourhood and this house might be just what you’re looking for. There’s Prince’s Park and Sefton Park just a short walk away, and you can catch a tram into the city centre on Croxteth Road, which is even nearer. Only of course it’s up to you, Mr Mac.’
The taxi driver, an elderly man who usually took them house-hunting, turned in his seat to gaze at them a trifle reproachfully. ‘Well, what’s it to be?’ he demanded. ‘Sydenham Avenue ain’t far; you could see that one house and then go on to Chester, if you want.’
Mr Mac ferreted in his pocket and produced some keys. ‘Right, Sydenham Avenue it is, driver.’ He turned to Emmy. ‘The house is empty but the agent gave me the keys, so we shan’t be held up by a chattering householder, or an agent eager to influence our decision.’
They reached Sydenham Avenue. The trees which lined it were bare, but Emmy was immediately struck, as she had been struck so many years before, by the peaceful atmosphere. She and Mr Mac climbed out of the taxi and walked up the short garden path, Emmy grateful, suddenly, for the pale winter sunshine. She found she desperately wanted Mr Mac to like this house, to say that he wanted to live here and would actually make an offer for the place. She realised that she had always ‘hedged her bets’, so to speak, when they discussed the properties they had seen. She had felt awkward, not wanting to influence his decision, wondering all the while if his future wife would blame her should the house prove less than satisfactory. Now, all these doubts and fears had left her. She had always thought Sydenham Avenue even lovelier than Lancaster, and now she was actually going to take a good look at one of the nicest houses.
Mr Mac unlocked the heavy front door and pushed it wide, and she followed him in so eagerly that she almost trod on his heels. They went first into a large and airy living room; the floor was of polished oak and, through the window, they could see the avenue and the front garden. At this time of year, it might have been a cheerless scene, but the sunshine falling on the silvery trunks of the trees, and a splash of scarlet berries and the yellow flowers of a jasmine, seemed a promise of things to come.
‘Nice,’ Mr Mac said briefly. ‘Well-proportioned room.’ Then he turned, and led the way into the rest of the house.
To Emmy, it was just as she had imagined; larger than the house in Lancaster Avenue and with a bigger garden at the back, but even empty, and with the December chill upon it, she thought it a welcoming house. It had been a family home and wanted to be one again, she thought wistfully. Perhaps Mr Mac would not like it; after all, he was looking for a home for himself and his future wife, for old Mrs Mac did not intend to move when he did. He had told Emmy, a week earlier, that his mother had decided to stay in the flat. ‘I thought she would enjoy living in pleasanter surroundings, with a garden to cultivate and less interference from the staff, but apparently I was wrong,’ he had said ruefully. ‘All her friends live in the Scotland Road area; she knows every shopkeeper, every stallholder and almost all our customers. She told me that she would be lost away from the dear old Scottie and, naturally, I respect her point of view, even though I can’t share it. But it has to be her own decision and perhaps, when I decide to buy, she may change her mind.’
When they had examined the house from attic to cellar, Mr Mac produced the keys again and unlocked the back door, and they went into the garden. Whoever had owned the house before had clearly either employed a gardener or been keen on horticulture himself, for there was a fruit cage, in which Mr Mac said he recognised blackcurrants, gooseberries and raspberries, and a sizeable patch which probably held every sort of vegetable during the summer months, though now it contained only cabbages, sprouts and a long rectangle full of what Emmy took to be golden ferns, dotted with brilliant red berries, which Mr Mac assured her was an asparagus bed. There were two apple trees, a plum tree and a small lawn, as well as a potting shed and a brick-built outhouse in which logs and other items could be stored.
Having examined everything minutely, they returned to the kitchen. It was a large, airy room, whose big window overlooked the back garden, but it was terribly old-fashioned, the sink at knee level and the range so old that it must, Emmy guessed, be an antique. The floor was quarry-tiled – easy to keep clean, Emmy thought approvingly – but the whitewashed walls were in sad need of attention and the light bulb which swung from the ceiling was so tiny and so badly placed that, at night, the kitchen would be a very gloomy place.
Emmy, however, knew that all this could be put right with very little outlay; probably the fact that the kitchen would have to be rebuilt would be reflected in the asking price. So she faced Mr Mac, almost challengingly. ‘Well, what d’you think?’ she asked. ‘I know it’s winter so the garden isn’t looking its best, and you’re going to say the kitchen’s a mess and the geyser in the bathroom must have been installed by Julius Caesar, but, aside from all that, what d’you think?’
To her surprise, Mr Mac, who had been standing by the window, crossed the room in a couple of strides and took both her hands in his. ‘What do you think?’ he asked her, his eyes very bright. ‘This is your old territory. How would you like to live here again?’
‘Oh, well, you must have guessed that I think it’s a lovely house,’ Emmy said slowly. ‘But I suppose it’s really a family house and you’re looking for something smaller. Only if your mam did agree to come here . . . and you might have guests . . .’
‘I might have children,’ Mr Mac said quietly. ‘I dare say you think I’m far too old, but I’d love to have a family. I think this would make a wonderful home in which to bring up two or three children, don’t you agree?’
Emmy stared into Mr Mac’s dark eyes and what she read there brought the hot blood rushing to her cheeks. She said unsteadily: ‘Why, you aren’t old at all, Mr Mac, only you’ve never said you meant to start a family, and . . . and . . .’
Mr Mac’s hands slid gently from hers to grasp her by the elbows. ‘It isn’t the done thing to ask a young lady if she would like a family before proposing marriage, you know,’ he said, and to Emmy’s astonishment his voice, too, was rather unsteady. ‘But let’s do things the wrong way round, shall we? Would you like a family, Mrs Wesley?’
Emmy stared at him, knowing that her eyes were getting rounder and rounder. ‘I – I’ve already got a family,’ she said huskily. ‘But I’ve always thought it a shame that Diana is an only child. If – if I married again—’ She broke off, and pulled away from Mr Mac, facing him resolutely. ‘Just who are you going to marry, Mr Mac? Only – only I do wish it were me.’ She took a deep breath and gathered up all her courage. It was now or never. ‘Will you marry me, please, Mr Mac?’
Mr Mac gave a triumphant shout of laughter and gathered her into his arms. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth. ‘I know I’m ten years older than you but I do believe I fell in love with you the day I interviewed you for a job in the restaurant. Then, as I grew to know you better – visiting you in the sanatorium – I began to see that you were the woman I’d been waiting for all my life. Only you were wrapped up in Johnny Frost and Carl Johansson, both young men of your own age, and didn’t give me a thought. I might tell you, I was near despair, deathly afraid that you would make a snap decision and marry one of them whilst I was still wary of chancing my arm and losing you altogether. Then you asked for my advice and I did my best to put you off the pair of them and—’
‘How devious you are,’ Emmy said, marvelling. ‘And telling me you were going to marry someone else – how I hated her – when all the time . . . all the time . . .’
‘All the time it was you I wanted,’ Mr Mac said, smiling down at her. ‘And of course there was no other woman, there never has been. But I thought, if you got to know me better, not just as a boss or a sick visitor, but as a man, you might begin to like me a little.’
‘I like you a lot,’ Emmy said shyly. She looked down at her feet and then up at his face. ‘Well, like isn’t really the right word. I – I didn’t know I was in love with you, I thought I was just jealous of the woman you meant to marry. Only I was beginning to see for myself that neither Johnny nor Carl was the right man for me. Then I had the weirdest dream, one of those really daft dreams that don’t seem to make sense at the time, and it’s only later that you can begin to interpret them. I dreamed that Johnny, Carl and another man were all waiting for me to make up my mind which one I wanted, and I knew that Mr Right . . . that’s what I called him in my mind . . . really was right – for me, I mean. Only I couldn’t see his face because it was sort of misty and vague. I tried and tried to see him clearly, tried so hard that I woke up. Then, of course, I came into the restaurant and gave you the house details, and you stood up and smiled at me. It – it was just like magic. At that very moment I saw Mr Right’s face clearly, and it was you, and I realised that I’d been in love with you for weeks and weeks, but hadn’t let myself see it.’ She looked ruefully up at Mr Mac and then, on an impulse, threw both arms round his neck and nestled her head into the hollow of his shoulder. ‘It sounds as though I’m making it up, but I’m not,’ she mumbled. ‘Oh, Mr Mac, I’d want to be with you even if you lived in Sweden, like Carl Johansson, or were weak-willed and easy to boss about like Johnny Frost. I can’t remember ever feeling like this before, not even when I first met Peter. Oh, and I still don’t know your first name!’
Mr Mac laughed, boisterously, and hugged her a little more tightly. ‘My first name’s Ted – Edward, really – and since we’ve decided to get married, I think I ought to kiss you, otherwise we’ll be the only engaged couple in the whole world who have seldom even shaken hands.’
As he spoke, he bent his head, and their lips met. It was a long kiss and a passionate one, and it left Emmy feeling dizzy with delight. I must have been mad, she told herself, not to have realised before how wonderful he is. And we’re going to get married! I’m the luckiest woman in the whole world!
They did not go to Chester after all, but got the taxi driver to take them straight to the estate agent’s, where Mr Mac made an offer for the house in Sydenham Avenue. ‘My fiancée and I prefer it to any of the other properties we have seen,’ he said grandly, giving Emmy’s hand a squeeze. ‘There is quite a lot that needs doing – the kitchen and bathroom both want modernising – so as soon as the contracts are signed and the money has been paid over, I shall get the builders in to do what’s necessary. That is, if the owner accepts my offer,’ he ended.
From the estate agent’s, they went on to a jeweller’s, where Mr Mac insisted upon buying a beautiful sapphire surrounded by diamond chips, though Emmy assured him that the only ring she really wanted was a plain band of gold. ‘I shall wear Peter’s rings on my right hand,’ she said, as they left the shop. ‘Diana shall have them when she’s old enough, but until then I would like to continue to wear them.’ She looked anxiously at Mr Mac. ‘You don’t mind, Mr Ma—I mean, Ted?’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Mr Mac assured her, steering her across the pavement and back into the taxi. ‘And now, my love, we must discuss your daughter, our plans for the wedding, where you would like to spend the honeymoon . . .’
‘Diana! Oh, good lord!’ Emmy said, a hand flying to her mouth. ‘She has no idea . . . I’ve never said . . . oh dear, I do hope she isn’t going to be difficult.’
‘I don’t see why she should be,’ Mr Mac said mildly. ‘I know she didn’t want you to marry Mr Johansson, or even Mr Frost, but neither of them lived in the city, so whichever one you married Diana felt she would be moved away from her pals and the area she knew. She was happy in the local school when you lived in Lancaster Avenue, was she not? I dare say it won’t be long before she’s as friendly with the other girls in her class as she was the first time round. No, I don’t see why she should object to our marriage, particularly as I am sure you will want her to be your bridal attendant. Most little girls like the idea of a frothy-laced dress, with yards of tulle, flowers in their hair, and everyone admiring them.’
‘I do hope you’re right,’ Emmy said fervently. ‘But I’m afraid her opinion isn’t going to affect my decision in the least. If she loves me – and I’m sure she does – then she’ll be happy because I’m so happy. I’ll make sure that she’s the first to know . . . in fact, it might be a good idea to meet her out of school. We could take her somewhere nice for tea and break the news over a strawberry ice cream cone and a lemonade; she’d like that.’
‘And then we could run round to Sydenham Avenue and show her the house,’ Mr Mac suggested, as the taxi headed out towards the suburbs once more. ‘But right now, I think we’ll give Chester a miss, my love, and have a light – and rather late – lunch. And then we’ll really have to start planning our future together.’
Diana had been satisfyingly amazed when her mother had revealed that she was engaged to be married and that the man of her choice was neither Johnny Frost nor Carl Johansson, but Ted McCullough. At first, Diana could not think who Ted McCullough could possibly be, but Mr Mac had put her right on that score.
‘I know it’ll be a surprise to you, Diana, but I hope it won’t be a disappointment,’ he said gravely, though Diana thought that laughter lurked in his eyes. ‘You see, your mother was so popular, and had so many admirers, that I didn’t think I stood a chance, and I wasn’t going to put myself forward to be knocked down like a perishing skittle. Only then she told me that she had decided neither Mr Frost nor Mr Johansson was right for her, and of course that gave me hope. I decided to pop the question and your mam has honoured me by accepting. We’ve put in an offer for a house on Sydenham Avenue and we’re hoping to get married in April, because that’s such a pretty month. Well, what d’you say? Do you approve?’
Diana had stared up at Mr Mac. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he were kidding her, because he was Mam’s boss, not a foolish young feller carried away by Emmy’s pretty looks. Also, he was old. To be sure, his hair was thick and dark, but there were silver streaks at his temples and there were tiny lines round his eyes. But then she looked deeply into those eyes and somehow she knew at once that he was not kidding; not only was he going to marry her mother, but he was in love with her, and in love in a much steadier, more sensible way than either Johnny or Carl had been. To her own secret astonishment, Diana realised that she would welcome Mr Mac – she could not yet think of him as Ted – as a stepfather. He would not pretend to play games with her, as Johnny Frost had done; nor would he treat her with the sort of amused, though veiled, disapproval that Carl had shown. He would be exactly the same on the inside as he was on the outside, Diana concluded, rather confusedly. If he disapproved – or approved – he would say so at once, and she knew he would take good care of her mother; he was that sort of man.
But best of all, she thought, he would leave Diana herself alone. He would not interfere or try to become a father figure. She thought he would leave Emmy to decide how her daughter should behave, and because she liked him, Diana told herself she would behave well. Emmy deserved that much from her.
‘Well?’ That was Emmy, sounding distinctly anxious. The three of them were sitting in a small teashop, Diana with a large dish of ice cream and a glass of lemonade, the adults with a plate of fancy cakes and a pot of tea. ‘Well, Diana darling? What do you think? Only I must warn you, love, that much though I want your approval, it won’t affect my decision. Mr Ma—I mean, Ted and I are going to get married and I know we’re going to be happy.’
Diana took a large spoonful of ice cream and beamed at her mother across the table. ‘I’m really glad and I’m sure you will – be happy, I mean,’ she said. ‘And I do think you were right to give Johnny and Carl the elbow; they really weren’t right for you, Mam. As for me, I guess Sydenham Avenue will be almost as good a place to live as Lancaster was. If you give me my tram fare, I can get to and from the city pretty easily, and my friends from school and the court will come out to me, I’m sure. And if I remember right, we’re ever so near Sefton Park; it’s as good as the country, is that. I bet Charlie – and the other kids, of course – will be happy enough to spend days in the park, and to have their dinners at our house. Why, we’ve had enough dinners at their house to feed a fighting army, as Uncle Wally would say,’ she ended.
Mr Mac laughed. ‘Aye, you’re right there, queen,’ he acknowledged. ‘Your Aunty Beryl has been marvellous to you and your mam, so I reckon she’ll visit you whenever she can. And now look lively, young lady, and finish that ice cream because it’s getting dark and we’d best be on our way. Tomorrow, we’ll take you to Sydenham Avenue to see what you think of the new house.’
Diana, gulping ice cream at a great rate, assured both adults that she was longing to see the house. ‘But what am I to call you, Mr Mac?’ she asked, rather plaintively. ‘I can’t call you Dad, because – well, because I’ve got a dad of me own, even if he is dead. But just “Ted” sounds rather rude, somehow, coming from a kid like me.’
‘Ted would suit me just fine, but if you feel it sounds cheeky, I’d settle for Uncle Ted,’ Mr Mac said gravely. ‘Of course, Edward is my given name, but hardly anyone uses it; it always makes me feel as if I’ve done something wrong, because the only time my old mam calls me Edward is when I’ve annoyed her in some way. Still, if it would make you more comfortable . . .’
Diana hastily assured him that ‘Uncle Ted’ would be just fine, and presently they set off for home.
*
If Beryl was astonished by Emmy’s news, when the three of them entered the house in Nightingale Court, she hid such feelings very well. Wreathed in smiles, however, she rushed to the front room and brought back a bottle of sherry, so that they might drink to the future happiness of the engaged couple.
‘You don’t seem very surprised, Beryl,’ Emmy said reproachfully, as the three adults settled into the rather stiff and uncomfortable parlour chairs. ‘I know I told you I wasn’t going to marry Johnny or Carl. But I don’t remember giving you any sort of hint . . . well, I couldn’t, because I didn’t know myself until Mr Mac – I mean, Ted – popped the question.’
‘And I must tell you, Mrs Fisher, that it wasn’t me who popped the question,’ Mr Mac said. He looked serious, save for the lurking twinkle in his dark eyes. ‘This forward young hussy put it to me straight that I needed a wife and that she would suit me best.’
Emmy choked over her sherry and began to giggle, but presently, mopping her streaming eyes, she said indignantly: ‘It wasn’t like that at all, Beryl, he’s having you on. Oh, I admit I asked him to marry me, but he had asked me, very improperly, if I would like a family. So then, of course, I felt I had to mention marriage, to make things respectable, like.’
‘Well, whichever. And whether you knew it or not, I’ve known for weeks that you’d fallen for Mr Mac,’ Beryl said comfortably. ‘You never were one who could hide your feelings, Emmy, my love. Every time Johnny or Carl were mentioned, you’d look that worried and anxious that I felt downright sorry for you. But every time Mr Mac’s name came into the conversation, your eyes went all dreamy and soft and half the time you stopped listening to a word I was saying, and drifted on into some dream of your own. Oh aye, you may not have known you’d met your Mr Right, but I knew, I’m telling you straight.’ She turned her gaze on to Mr Mac, smiling slightly at him. ‘And as for you, Mr Mac, it weren’t difficult to put two and two together and make four, not after our conversation in the train coming back from Llandudno that day. I haven’t lived in this court all me life without learnin’ a good deal about people. I thought you were in love with our Emmy, but I weren’t sure whether you knew it yourself or not. Not until you come round askin’ her to go house-huntin’ with you, that is. Then I were pretty sure.’ Mr Mac and Emmy stared at Beryl, goggle-eyed. Then they both smiled, their expressions so similar that Beryl laughed aloud. ‘You’ll do,’ she said. ‘You’re two of a kind, you are. And how did young Diana take it? I guess the reason she lit out without waitin’ for her tea was so’s she could be first with the news.’
Diana would have found Charlie, if she could have done so, but it appeared that he and Lenny had gone off on some errand of their own. She could have told the other kids but wanted Charlie to be the first to hear her news. So, having scouted up and down the area for him, she decided she would go to Mrs Symons first. After all, the old lady had been a good friend to her and would be delighted that Emmy had chosen someone she both knew and liked. Of course, Mrs Symons had known Johnny Frost slightly, and had shared Diana’s opinion that he was weak, but she had not known Carl Johansson at all and had accepted Diana’s view of him, especially when Diana had told her that Carl might well carry his wife and stepdaughter back to Sweden with him. ‘And I’d miss all of you dreadfully, Mrs Symons,’ Diana had said mournfully. ‘So I do hope Mam comes to her senses. Aunty Beryl says there’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, which I think means that Mam might meet someone really nice one day. Still, there’s nothing I can do about it; I’m only a kid.’
So, knocking briskly on the Symonses’ front door and going in, Diana was confident that her old friend would share her feelings, and so it proved.
‘Mr Mac is a thoroughly nice, thoroughly good man who will make you and your mam very happy,’ Mrs Symons said positively. ‘And you say you’re to live in Sydenham Avenue? That’s an excellent area. When I was a little girl, we lived for a while in Buckingham Avenue. I was really happy there; my mama used to take me to the park and I had a great many little friends living nearby.’
‘Why did you leave?’ Diana asked curiously. ‘We left because my daddy was killed; if it hadn’t happened, I’m sure we would still be there.’
‘My papa was in business with a partner, a Mr Phillips,’ Mrs Symons said. ‘They had a company which imported fine china from all over the world, and were doing very well. Mr Phillips, however, was not an honest man, though my mama said many times that he could charm the birds out of the trees.’ She sighed sadly, looking back down the long years. ‘But my mama did not take to him and she was proved right when he disappeared one morning in early summer, taking with him all the profits from Gregg & Phillips, as well as all the orders which were waiting to be honoured. The receivers were called in . . . you won’t know what that means, dear, but it was the end of Gregg & Phillips – and we were forced to sell everything, our beautiful house, all the horses and carriages, even the cottage in the country where we had spent our holidays.’
‘Oh, Mrs Symons, how dreadful,’ Diana breathed, awestruck. ‘Did the police ever catch up with Mr Phillips? Did your family ever get their money back?’ She stroked the old lady’s hand. ‘I am so sorry.’
Mrs Symons laughed and pinched Diana’s cheek. ‘You’re a kind little soul,’ she said. ‘No, Mr Phillips disappeared like a raindrop in a puddle, but my papa managed to revive the business, though in a much smaller way. We lived in a far humbler house and, naturally, in a far humbler style, but we never went hungry, and very soon there was enough money coming in to enable us to live comfortably once more. And then, of course, I met Adam Symons. It was love at first sight and, even though he was only a clerk in a shipping office, we married almost at once.’ She beamed at Diana. ‘And lived happily ever after,’ she ended.
Diana smiled back. ‘Well, if Mam had married either Johnny or Carl, I’d have gone away from Liverpool, but now I’m safe because we’ll stay here,’ she said. ‘Mr Mac – I’m to call him Uncle Ted, by the way – is going to buy a car, so if he sends it to fetch you, would you come out to Sydenham Avenue and visit us? Mam and I would be delighted and I’m sure Mr Mac would, too. And now I must go and find Charlie. I wonder what he’ll say when I tell him we will be moving out.’
What Charlie said in his head was ‘Thanks be to God’, but his mother gave him a glance so loaded with warning that he bit back the words, saying neutrally: ‘Well, ain’t that grand, queen! I’ve heared Mr Mac’s flat is pretty large, so no doubt you’ll have a room to yourself.’
Diana, alight with excitement, told him about the house in Sydenham Avenue and Charlie mentally revised his feelings; it would be rare nice to be able to spend all day in the park, playing footie, muckin’ about by the lake, and going in and out of the palm house. They could pop in to Aunt Emmy’s for their dinner and though it would mean having to let Diana share their games, it was a small price to pay for the freedom of the park.
So Charlie approved of the wedding plans, though he was satisfyingly astonished to hear that Emmy was to marry Mr Mac, instead of Johnny or Carl. ‘But he’s old,’ he had said, when he and Diana had gone for a stroll along the Scotland Road. ‘Don’t you mind him being old, Di? An’ wharrabout Aunt Emmy? Don’t she mind?’
‘He’s not that old,’ Diana objected. ‘But I don’t think it matters, Charlie. Look at Mrs Symons. She’s old as the hills – older – but she’s me best friend, after you.’
Charlie did not argue the point; he had no intention of putting a rub in the way of the Wesleys’ leaving. They were all right, both of them, but the house was crowded enough without them, and anyway, he would be glad of a respite from Diana’s constant presence. So he agreed that Mr Mac was probably just right for Aunt Emmy and began to look forward to moving-out day.
Christmas came and went. March arrived and Diana bounced around the house, talking excitedly about the gown she would wear for her mother’s wedding. The house had been bought and Emmy and Mr Mac had enormous fun furnishing it, though Diana rapidly grew bored and opted out of such shopping trips. The wedding date was fixed for 9th April. Mr Mac had closed the restaurant to ordinary customers on that day, in order that the wedding breakfast might be held there, and when the day dawned, bright and sunny, the excitement amongst the staff and the wedding guests was intense. Wedding breakfasts in the courts were entirely dependent on the weather, for the houses were far too small to allow for a party to be held indoors. That was why weddings were mostly held in June, July and August, when at least the weather was warmer and there was a good chance that the ‘two penn’orth of sky’ above the rooftops would be blue.
Emmy, dressing in her room, with her daughter dancing excitedly around, a vision in pink and white lace and tulle, found herself aflutter with nerves. Her first wedding had been wonderful, but she acknowledged now that the way she felt about Peter had been puppy love compared to the way she felt about Ted McCullough. She knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Ted was indeed her Mr Right. She supposed that Peter had been exactly right for the fluttery little butterfly she had been at nineteen, but now that she was a woman who had had to learn both strength and independence, she needed someone altogether different. In fact, she needed Mr Mac.
‘Emmy, time’s getting on, queen. I know they say brides always ought to be a bit late . . .’
Emmy’s heart gave a little jerk; the words Beryl was saying were the very same that she had used to hurry Emmy to her first wedding. For a moment she saw Peter’s face quite clearly as he had looked on that long-ago day, and she felt tears come to her eyes. Poor Peter, her first love . . . but not, thank goodness, her last. Life had to go on and she knew that her happiness would have been Peter’s first concern. So she banished the tears, because they were for a past which could never return, and turned to smile resolutely at her friend. Beryl was looking her best in a bright blue skirt and jacket and a pink cloche hat, and, beside her, Diana looked sweet in rose-pink. Emmy was dressed in a cream linen suit with a string of amber beads round her throat and tan-coloured court shoes on her feet, and on her dressing table lay a modest bouquet of dark yellow roses. She picked up the flowers, then glanced in the mirror to check that nothing was amiss with her appearance. She could not regret leaving the little house in the court, though she would always remember the wonderful kindness of both Beryl and Wally in offering her a home at her time of greatest need.
‘It’s all right, Beryl, I’m ready to leave,’ she said, and reached up to give her friend a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘You’ve been wonderful, queen, better than any sister, and I’ve been very happy under your roof . . .’
‘Oh, go on with you,’ Beryl said, returning the kiss. ‘Now let’s get this show on the road. I dare say Mr Mac will be as nervous as a kitten, because though you’re an old hand at weddings, this is his first. Emmy, you look like a girl again, pretty as a picture. Why, Diana might be your sister.’
As she spoke, she was ushering mother and daughter downstairs, and presently Emmy stepped into the court, glancing upwards as she did so. ‘Oh look,’ she said, clutching Beryl’s arm, ‘the two penn’orth of sky that Mam talked about is all blue and gold. Oh, Beryl, it’s a sign, isn’t it? We’re going to be the happiest little family in the whole world!’