A Mother’s Hope

Despite Martin’s secret fears, the optician assured him, having read Mr Cornwallis’s note, that the spectacles would be free and ready for collection before he started his new job. Furthermore, whilst he was having his eyes tested, Rose wandered around the room, examining everything, and made a discovery. She turned to the optician, who was busy writing the results of Martin’s eye test, and said, ‘Excuse me, mister, but there’s a pair of specs here wharr’ave got glass what looks almost blue. Could Martin have specs like that?’

So when Rose and Martin joined Don on the pavement in Lord Street, Martin felt that a new life was opening up for him. He had tried on a pair of tinted glasses and could see for himself what an astonishing difference they made to his appearance whilst Rose, apparently awestruck, had said: ‘Oh, Mart, why on earth didn’t someone suggest tinted specs for you before? Your eyes look wonderful; dark purple instead of pink.’

So it was with a light heart, though he still had to keep a hand on the greyhound’s head for the time being, that Martin set off with Rose to find a hairdresser. They walked along Church Street, crossed Ranelagh and entered Bold Street. Martin, growing apprehensive, for Bold Street was a very smart area indeed, suggested that they might try somewhere less imposing. But Rose, who had very definite ideas of her own, shook her head at him. ‘Your hair’s been neglected pretty well all your life and needs expert attention,’ she told him. ‘I dare say it’ll cost a bob or two, but a really good haircut will make a world of difference, I promise you.’ She put a detaining hand on his arm, bringing him to a stop. ‘Look, Mart, I had a word with one of the old people the other day and she told me that her daughter, who is on the stage and a very smart person, comes all the way back from London to have her hair cut and styled by a hairdresser whose premises are opposite the Newington. His salon is on the first floor, up a flight of stairs, and she says he’s first class, so if we can find him . . .’

Martin, who had never had his hair professionally cut, for the staff at the Arbuthnot had done the job themselves, was overawed by Rose’s suggestion. ‘It sounds awful expensive to me,’ he said. ‘Oh, please, Rosie, it’ll be too posh. I’ll feel uncomfortable, honest to God I will.’

‘Nonsense,’ Rose said firmly. ‘I’ve brought my baking money with me, so even if they charge a bit extra because your hair’s such a mess we’ll have plenty to cover the cost. Ah, see that board? J. G. Mann, Hairdresser to the Stars – that’s the one for us! And don’t you go trying to escape, because our money’s as good as anyone else’s.’ She gave him an encouraging grin. ‘Pluck up, old feller! Look, I’ll go up first whilst you and Don wait here, then I’ll come down and tell you the score.’

Rose sighed. ‘Look, Mart, people are a lot nicer than you might credit. I’ve found that if you explain things, folk are sometimes quite glad to be able to help. Take my cooking, for instance. It were the only thing I could do to make meself a bit of money on the side, so to speak, and Miss Haverstock didn’t just turn me away or say that her cook could manage without help. I told her I were hard pressed to keep up wi’ payments and were tryin’ to furnish me flat, and she bought a couple of Victoria sponges for the old people’s tea. So don’t you worry about your haircut; Mr Mann’s ever so nice, the lady said, and all we can do is ask. But you stay outside with Don while I talk to the boss . . . I shan’t be above five minutes.’

‘Oh, but suppose . . .’ Martin began. He had just remembered that he had no idea whether he would be paid weekly or monthly. Still, a loan was a loan and he knew Rose well enough to realise that she would not pressure him to get her money back, since she understood his circumstances as well as he did himself.

Rose was as good as her word; scarcely five minutes had passed before she came clattering down the stairs and beckoned to him. ‘Mr Mann is going to cut your hair himself,’ she announced dramatically. ‘Don and I will amuse ourselves while you’re being done. And I hope you realise how lucky you are, because I explained about the dole and the new job, and he’s goin’ to do it for nothing – imagine that, from a feller what does the hair of just about every famous person in Liverpool!’

Martin thought briefly about rebelling, then glanced at Rose’s pink cheeks and shining eyes and knew he could do no such thing. So he straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and began to climb the stairs. The boys at the Arbuthnot had occasionally been taken to the pictures, and when he reached the salon and saw the numerous framed photographs of faces he knew from the advertising posters outside every cinema in Liverpool, his courage nearly failed him.

However, before he could turn and run, a man came towards him. He was of medium height and extremely good-looking, with light brown wavy hair and a strong, deeply cleft chin. He looked as though he were accustomed to command, but his smile was friendly and Martin began to relax. ‘Mr Thompson? Your young lady has spoken to me and explained your situation. Well, as I told her, I like a challenge!’ He gestured at the large room around him. ‘As you can see, my clients today are mostly ladies, so I think you will be more comfortable if I take you into the cubicle at the far end of the room.’

Martin, horribly conscious of his ragged jersey and ancient trousers, wished that he was still wearing his interview clothes. Consequently, he was downright grateful when Mr Mann ushered him into the small room and sat him down on a black leather chair before a large mirror. The hairdresser ran his hands thoughtfully through Martin’s hair, which Martin realised now must be at least eight or nine inches long. Mr Mann reached for a small spray gun and aimed it at Martin’s head. ‘This is only water,’ he said reassuringly. ‘But your hair is very fine and has to be cut when it is wet. My goodness, whoever cut your hair last appears to have used garden shears!’

Martin, who had been horrified by the sight of himself in the big mirror, gave a little laugh. He thought he looked a real sissy in the floral coverall the hairdresser had draped around his shoulders, but decided not to say so. Instead of remarking on his appearance, therefore, Martin admitted that he had been brought up at the Arbuthnot, where haircutting was done by the staff in a very hit and miss fashion. At Brackendale Hall, the warden had offered to do it, but since leaving there he had not had a haircut, needing his dole money for such things as food and the occasional tram fare. Mr Mann, combing Martin’s now wet locks, nodded understandingly, produced his scissors and began to cut.

Twenty minutes later, Martin stood up and looked with awe at the quantity of white thistledown that now surrounded the chair. Then he examined his new look in the mirror. ‘Gosh! I feel a different person,’ he said, turning to the hairdresser and removing the floral coverall. ‘I never knew a good haircut could make such a difference. Oh, Mr Mann, thank you so much. But what do I owe you?’

The hairdresser went over to a small cupboard and took out a dustpan and brush, with which he began to sweep up the piles of hair on the floor. He lowered his voice so that he could not be heard outside the cubicle, and said, ‘Your young lady explained the circumstances and she’s going to come back tomorrow with a cake, which will be quite sufficient. I don’t normally cut men’s hair, but leave that to the barbers. However, during the war, though I was officially a runner in the army, I was frequently asked to cut the men’s hair when we were far from civilisation, so you see I’m not without experience.’

Martin thanked him again, and left the salon. His head felt most peculiar, light and airy. Mr Mann had used a touch of Brylcreem, but had warned Martin not to overdo it. ‘You hair is so fine that if you use too much your scalp will begin to show through,’ he had said tactfully. ‘Good luck with your new job. You’ll need a trim in five or six weeks, so if you would like to return, you can come in your lunch hour, or after work. We’re quiet between five and six mid-week; I could fit you in then.’

On the tram to the market, Rose turned to her companion. ‘I say, Martin, your hair looks great, honest to God it does,’ she said. ‘I never knew your head was such a nice shape. I told you it was always best to go to an expert, so next time don’t argue with me, ’cos I always knows best, so I does. And now let’s hope we can find you something halfway decent to wear. Mrs Thrower, the one who lent us your interview clothes, is probably our best bet.’

They reached the portals of Paddy’s Market and Martin suggested, hopefully, that he and Don might wait for Rose outside, for the bustle within and the raucous shouts of the stallholders, to say nothing of the noise coming from the bargaining sailors and other customers, made him nervous. Rose, however, speedily scotched his hopes. ‘You’ve got to come because I can’t guess at sizes and you’ll need something you’re comfortable in,’ she told him. ‘Mrs Thrower’s ever so nice; she’ll let you try on if you take the clothes to the lavvies, and no one’s going to notice Don in this crowd. C’mon, Mart, don’t be a wimp.’

Stung, Martin marched boldly into the market, stopping by the first stall but being dragged on by his companion. ‘Not this one, you idiot,’ she hissed. ‘Mrs Thrower is three further along. While you were havin’ your hair cut I nipped along to Fuller’s and bought her a couple of doughnuts as a thank you for the loan; I just hope they’ve not oozed jam all over your nice interview clothes.’

‘I hope so too,’ Martin said fervently as they reached the stall in question. It was all right, however. Rose handed over the clothes, unmarked, and the bag of doughnuts, for which she was enthusiastically thanked. Mrs Thrower checked the garments carefully, then hung them at the back of the stall where her better clothing was out of reach of both dirty fingers and would-be thieves. Then she reached under the counter and produced Rose’s winter coat, which she handed back to its owner with a smile. ‘Anything else I can do for you?’ she enquired. She looked quizzically at Martin, her bright little eyes taking him in from the top of his head to the tips of his scuffed and dusty shoes. ‘Did you get the job, young feller?’ she asked. ‘If you did, I reckon you’ve me good clothes to thank.’ And, when Martin nodded, she added: ‘But what’ll they say when you turn up for work in that lot, eh?’ She jerked a thumb at his ragged apparel. ‘I reckon you’re going to tell me some hard-luck story and expect me to extend the loan of me decent stuff, but I can’t do it. I’ve a customer coming in later who’ll pay me fair and square for the jacket and the shirt, so I’d be obliged if you’d not even ask.’

Martin opened his mouth to reply indignantly, but Rose elbowed him in the ribs and cut in before he said a word. ‘It were real good of you to loan us the stuff, Mrs Thrower, but what we’re after now is a plain old shirt, a cheap jacket and trousers, and some sort of headgear . . . a flat cap, I reckon. You’re dead right; them interview clothes gorr’im the job just about, so what ’ud you recommend as the right gear for an office junior?’

Clever Rose, Martin thought, as the woman’s slightly aggressive expression turned to one of helpful interest. ‘Ah, now let me think . . .’ she said. She riffled through a pile of shirts, then pulled out a blue one which she laid on top of the pile. ‘If you was takin’ messages an’ that, there’d likely be a uniform,’ she announced rather regretfully. ‘But office juniors is different. I’d say a blue or a grey shirt, what won’t show the dirt, navy or grey trousers for the same reason, and either a V-necked pullover or a cotton jacket.’ Mrs Thrower cocked an eye at them. ‘Both, if you’ve got the dosh to spare.’

They left the market after half an hour’s trawling through what was within their means, Rose’s shopping bag fairly bulging. The only thing they had been unable to purchase were shoes, because there were none to fit Martin’s long thin feet, but Rose had insisted that they purchase two pairs of thick socks. ‘Your boots just ain’t suitable,’ she had said bluntly. ‘But they’ll have to do until you’ve earned enough money to gerra new pair. Tell you what, Mart, next time there’s a jumble sale at the church hall on Everton Road we might just get lucky, because Father Shannon has got long thin feet and knobbly toes just like yours. If he’s chuckin’ out a pair, then we’ll grab ’em.’

Rose gave a snort of amusement. ‘We used to have an annual outin’, from the home, and once Father Shannon stood in for a helper what didn’t turn up in time to catch the cherrybang. He were good fun and I reckon he enjoyed it near on as much as we did. We went to Rhyl and he hooked up his cassock, took off his shoes and socks, and paddled wi’ the rest of us. He rolled up his trousers too, of course, but one trouser leg fell down, so he were wet to the knee. I saw his feet then, and on that first day, when you came paddin’ into the kitchen an’ I saw your feet, I thought of Father Shannon at once.’

‘Thank you very much!’ Martin said. ‘So me feet are thin and knobbly, are they? Still, I get your point, and I’ll come to the next jumble sale with you; as you say, we might get lucky, ’cos new shoes is expensive. Oh, let’s buy some chips, Rosie. It’ll save you havin’ to make grub when we get back.’

Martin had not expected to like his new job, but after a week of working at the Cygnet Insurance office he found that he was truly happy. It was a big and thriving establishment, and though at first he had worried that he would not be up to the work, he soon discovered that if he listened to instructions and followed them closely he could do everything required of him.

He was not supposed to start work until nine, but Thomas, the messenger boy, started at half past eight and made it clear he would be glad of a bit of company. Thomas was only fifteen, a shock-headed youth who rode his red bicycle all over the city and even down to the docks, where he was well known to most of the people who exchanged messages with the Cygnet office. Lucky Thomas was not only provided with the bicycle, but also given a smart navy uniform. He was a short, stocky lad, with ginger hair, freckles and a broad gap-toothed grin, and he took in his stride all the teasing which came his way. It was often said that his flaming red hair would ignite the navy pillbox hat that he wore, but whereas Martin would have felt criticised if such a remark were made to him, Thomas had a fund of rude replies and simply shrugged off any criticism.

Although Martin was three years older, the two got on well and Martin realised that for the first time in his life he had a friend. He acknowledged of course that Rose was also his friend, but their relationship was different. He and Rose looked after each other, but Martin knew that they had been thrown together by circumstance and not choice; he and Thomas had chosen to become friendly. He often thought that Rose was only waiting for him to become self-supporting before announcing a parting of the ways. Rose and her baby would follow one path and he another. He knew he would miss her horribly, but doubted if she would miss him. It was the difference, he supposed vaguely, between the friendship of two boys and that of a boy and a girl. Although Rose was so much younger than himself, she had matured even in the short period of time he had known her. He thought that some of this at least might be due to her condition, but remembered the doctor saying that young women grew up more quickly than young men.

Now that he was doing a job of work, he began to cast off his conviction that he would never amount to anything. Exchange Flags was a good place to work. The buildings – mostly insurance offices – were built round a paved area which had a pool and a fountain in the centre, surrounded by a convenient wall just the right height to make a comfortable seat.

It was a pity that Martin could not take Don to work with him but that was plainly impossible, so the big dog stayed in the tower block until Rose had done her housework and cooking. Then she would take him shopping with her, and when Martin had been in his job a week she actually took Don to Exchange Flags at a time when she knew Martin would be sitting outside. The day had been fine and Don, as always, on his best behaviour. Martin had taken him from group to group, introducing him to everyone he knew; as proud of his charge as any new father would have been of his offspring.

A week after her visit to Exchange Flags, Rose and Don headed for Brougham Terrace. Rose carried a large shoulder bag into which she intended to put the free dried milk, orange juice and cod liver oil that would be handed out once the doctor had examined her. Rose, who hated the cod liver oil, always accepted it with a grateful smile but, when she got home, poured it into a saucer for the feral cats, who thought it a rare treat. However, now that the birth was getting closer, she usually saved half for herself and, shuddering, would swallow a brimming spoonful each morning, following it up – oh, bliss – with a glass of orange juice.

Reaching the clinic, she tied Don up to the nearest lamp post as she always did, and took her place in the queue to see the doctor. To her pleasure it was Dr Matthews, not always the case since one never knew who would be taking the clinic, though the nurses rarely changed. Sister Simpson was chatting and taking details today, then bustling the women into the surgery. It always made Rose laugh, though inwardly, when Sister Simpson, fifty if she was a day, referred to girls of twenty or so as ‘mother’, but by now she had grown used to the strange ways of the medical staff and went happily into the surgery when her turn came. She had looked round carefully when she had entered the clinic, wondering whether Mrs Ellis might be present, but had seen no sign of her and remembered that weekly attendance was not thought necessary until the seventh month of pregnancy.

Dr Matthews smiled. ‘Babies take their time, but there are certain signs by which we can judge when birth is imminent,’ he said. ‘I would say you have a little while to go yet, but of course I could be wrong. He beamed at her. ‘So all I can do is advise patience, my dear.’

Rose smiled back. ‘I am patient,’ she assured him. ‘Though sometimes it feels more like seven years than seven months. I was looking round for Mrs Ellis earlier, because she told me a few weeks ago that she was in the family way herself, and I wondered if she might be here. But perhaps it’s a bit soon for her.’

Dr Matthews frowned, looking puzzled. ‘You don’t know?’ he said. ‘You can’t have seen her recently or of course she would have told you. I’m afraid – I’m afraid it was a false alarm. It does happen sometimes that a woman becomes so desperate for a child that she actually decides to adopt, stops worrying about conceiving and so becomes pregnant. I thought that must have happened with Mrs Ellis. However . . .’

The day had been grey and cool and clouds continued to scud across the sky. Martin, on his way home, sighed and put up the hood of his trusty duffel coat. If he caught a tram he could get home more or less dry, but he was still terribly money conscious, worrying constantly that he and Rose might find it difficult to manage once the baby was born. Rose had assured him that they should be able to cope, but Martin imagined that babies needed all sorts of strange and exotic food and worried that they might not be able to provide such luxuries.

But tram fares were cheap, and as the rain grew heavier he decided he was being a fool. When a No. 13 passed him, slowing to pick up passengers at a nearby stop, he joined the tail of the queue and jumped aboard. By the time they reached the tower blocks he was glad he had done so, for the rain had now begun to fall in earnest and his duffel coat was already growing distinctly damp. Having lived rough for so long, Martin was indifferent to what the weather might fling at him, but he knew that getting a heavy coat dry again could be a problem.

He jumped off the tram and scooted for the flats, taking off his duffel coat at the foot of the stairs and giving it a good shake before beginning to run quietly up the flights. He always ran if he possibly could, first because it was good for him, he reckoned, and second because being an unofficial tenant, so to speak, he wanted to be seen by as few people as possible.

They had taken to hanging the key on a long piece of string inside the letterbox and now he pulled it out, let himself in and locked the door behind him. He kicked off his boots and padded across to the kitchen intending to put the kettle on, but as he entered the room Don ran across the floor to him, tail wagging in greeting, and Martin saw that the kettle was already hissing gently on the stove. So Rose was home, then. ‘Hello, old boy,’ Martin said, stroking the dog’s silky ears. ‘Where’s your missus, then? Where’s our Rose?’

Rose was kneeling on the floor surrounded by a sea of assorted garments, and Don was vigorously licking her face and uttering little whining noises. Directly in front of Rose were two very old and very shabby Gladstone bags and at Martin’s knock she turned towards him, revealing a face so tear-streaked and swollen with crying that for a moment he scarcely recognised her.

As he spoke, he tried to put his arm round her, but she shrank away, beginning to ferret amongst the clothing as though searching for something in particular. ‘Oh, it’s you, Martin,’ she muttered in a hoarse little voice. ‘I thought it was her . . . or maybe him. I meant to take the key off the door but I was in such a state . . . Martin, I’ve got to get away from here. One of the bags is for the baby’s stuff and the other for me. Only – only I don’t seem able to choose. I ought to take summer stuff . . . only it’s still cold out and . . .’

Martin sighed, stood up and put his hands beneath Rose’s armpits to heave her, not without difficulty, to her feet. ‘The kettle’s boiling and I’m going to make us a cup of tea whilst you come into the kitchen and sit by the stove and tell me what’s wrong,’ he said. He spoke as placidly as he could, though inwardly he was deeply perturbed by her seemingly irrational behaviour. ‘Come along now, Rosie. I’ll go and take the key off the door so if anyone comes they can’t get in. We’ll pretend we’re out if anyone knocks.’

He half feared that Rose would ignore him and drop to her knees once more, but she did no such thing. She tucked her hand into Don’s collar and the pair followed Martin meekly into the kitchen, where Rose collapsed on to a chair and Don sat down beside her, his head in her lap and his anxious eyes fixed on her face. Martin brewed the tea, poured two cups, opened the biscuit barrel and set out four ginger nuts on a plate. ‘You can tell me what’s wrong when you’ve finished your first cup of tea,’ he said firmly.

Rose nodded weakly and handed one of the biscuits to Don, who crunched it up without moving his head from her lap. Martin drank his own cup of tea, sipping cautiously, for it was hot, and watched Rose as she followed suit. He remembered that it was clinic day and began to imagine frightening things, but at least her bump was very much in evidence and, now that he thought back, he remembered her saying that the second Gladstone bag – or was it the first? – was intended for her baby clothes, so the worst had not happened.

Rose pushed her empty mug towards him and Martin poured them both a second cup, then looked questioningly at his companion. ‘Well, Rosie? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ he asked gently. ‘Because I’m tellin’ you straight, you aren’t leaving this room until I’ve heard the whole story, and this time it had better be from the very beginning, and not just in bits and bobs.’

He half expected a brush-off, but Rose gave a tired sigh, patted the dog’s smooth head, and began to speak. ‘All right, though I don’t see that much good can come of telling you from the very beginning, which was last August, at the guide camp in Snowdonia.’

Rose sniffed and gave a watery chuckle. ‘I’m not Else, I’m Rose,’ she said. ‘Oh, all right, Mart, I guess it had better be from the beginning. Only I – I promised I’d not say a word to anyone . . . but I didn’t know, when I promised, what I know now.’

Rose took a deep breath and began her story. ‘Well, I was at Guide camp with a lot of other girls from St Mary’s, and Captain – that’s what we called Mrs Ellis – was in charge. It was grand fun. We went mountain-walking, canoeing, even swimming in Lake Something-or-other, and we all got along fine. Then someone caught one of these awful stomach bugs. I can’t remember who was the first to go down, but I was real chuffed because I seemed to be immune or whatever the word is. Only then I got it, the very last person to do so, and I reckon I was even iller than the others. For three whole days I couldn’t keep nothin’ down and Captain was gettin’ worried. Then on the fourth day I woke feeling weak, but much better. I had two cups of tea, a bowl of porridge and two rounds of dry toast with Marmite. The girls were going on an expedition up one of the easier peaks. They were taking butties for midday so wouldn’t be back till late afternoon. Captain asked me if I’d be all right alone, and of course I said I would because I knew I weren’t strong enough to climb even a tiny mountain, and I planned to spend the day tidyin’ the camp so Captain would be pleased with me when they got back. She’d been ever so kind while I was ill, you see.

‘I saw the others off and began to tidy round the camp, but around midday I fancied a bit of a splash in the mountain stream which ran, oh, I dunno, ten or twenty feet from the camp perhaps. I stripped off my clothes because there was no one about, took a bar of soap and my towel, and found meself a deepish pool. I had a lovely wash. I even did me hair, and felt fresh as a daisy, honest I did.’ She looked anxiously across at Martin. ‘I didn’t know . . . I never dreamed . . .’

‘You aren’t far wrong, but we’d better get it exactly right,’ Rose said. ‘I was padding back to the camp, wrapped in me towel, when a man appeared. I jumped a mile, I can tell you, but then I saw that it was Mr Ellis. I felt a bit of a fool but I gave him a little wave and a smile, because Captain had told us that her husband had booked himself into one of the hostels so that they could be together for a day or two. I’d only seen him once before, but I reckernised him. He called across to me, asking where Captain and the girls had gone, and I said on a climbing expedition. He pulled a face when I said they wouldn’t be back till late and half turned away, and honest to God, Mart, I thought he was leavin’. I gave him another wave, shouted that I’d tell Captain he’d come callin’, and went into the big tent, which was where I’d left my clothes. I was just givin’ myself a final rub when I saw this great huge shadow appear on the tent wall, and then – and then . . .’

Her voice faltered to a halt and Martin spoke quickly. ‘It’s all right; you don’t have to say nothin’ else. So Mr Ellis is the father and Mrs Ellis is helping you – paying your rent and so on – because her husband is the guilty one. And of course if it came out there would be trouble for both of them because you’re a minor. The folk at the home might prosecute Mr Ellis, for all I know, or Mrs Ellis, come to that. Am I right?’

‘The wicked old sod; I wish I could get my hands on him,’ Martin said between clenched teeth. ‘I wish you could shout it from the rooftops, but you’re right, of course: he’d simply deny it and say you were the sort of girl who’d go with anyone. Oh, Rose, you must hate the bugger.’

Rose put her head on one side and Martin saw with relief that her tears had ceased to flow, at least temporarily. ‘I hated him at first all right,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But then I remembered how he cried and called himself names, and said how sorry he was. He wanted me to swear I wouldn’t tell, so I promised, because I didn’t want anyone to know. I felt – I felt dirty and guilty, and as though it was my fault as much as his, though I knew in my heart that it wasn’t, of course. I poured water into a basin and washed all over, and kept doing that until Captain came back. I started to tell her that Mr Ellis had come to the camp hoping to see her, only in the middle I started crying and couldn’t stop, and Mrs Ellis guessed. She went white as a sheet and then very red indeed. She made her hands into fists and took me along to her own tent. When we got there, she gave me a hug and said that if there were con . . . consequences, she would look after me.

‘So when my monthlies didn’t come, she explained that I was going to have a baby and got me the flat, told me about visiting the clinic and so on. We agreed that I wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened. Mrs Ellis told St Mary’s that she had got me a live-in job in her own village. I didn’t know where that was then, but she’s told me since it’s on the Wirral.

‘I did try to get away because at first it scared me that Mr Ellis must know that I lived in one of the tower blocks on Everton Brow. I was afraid he might come callin’ . . .’ she shuddered, ‘because of course I felt I never wanted to see him again. That was why I tried for the job in Southport, but as you know I didn’t gerrit and I suppose I was daft to try.’

‘No, you weren’t daft, but you still haven’t explained why you were packing your stuff and planning to leave when I came in,’ Martin pointed out. ‘Go on with the story, Rose. Tell me the lot and let’s gerrit over, and then we can talk about what’s best to do.’

Rose sighed and wiped away a tear that was trickling down her cheek. ‘This afternoon, I went to the clinic and saw Dr Matthews. We talked a bit about when my baby was due and then I mentioned Mrs Ellis. I told you she’d said she was expecting a baby herself, so I asked how she was getting on. Dr Matthews told me it were a false alarm. He said it often happens when a woman decides to adopt and stops worrying about why she can’t get pregnant. Then she relaxes and she does, see?’

‘I said how sorry I was and then Dr Matthews said not to worry because when my baby was born Mrs Ellis would love it as dearly as though it were her own and would bring it up beautifully, because she was such a good person. He said he hoped I knew how lucky I was to have someone ready and willing to take on my baby and give it the best of everything. Mart, I just stared at him whilst he rabbited on about my never even having to see the baby and how Mrs Ellis would find me a good job and continue to pay the rent on my flat.’

There was an appalled silence whilst Martin tried to take in what Rose was telling him. Finally, he spoke. ‘But Rose, that would be stealing! It’s your baby . . . didn’t you tell Dr Matthews that you wanted to keep it? He’s awful nice and I’m sure he’d tell Mrs Ellis for you if you didn’t want to do it yourself.’

‘I did try,’ Rose said, and to Martin’s dismay he saw the tears begin to well up in her eyes again. ‘But he got up and came over and patted my shoulder and said that as far as he could see, my keeping the baby was impossible. He told me what the rent of the flat was – it’s a huge sum, Mart – and began to list all the things I’d have to buy to keep myself and the baby. Oh, not just food, but heating, lighting and rates, whatever they may be. He said if I kept the baby I couldn’t expect Mrs Ellis to go on supporting me. Then he asked me if there was any possibility of my marrying the father.’ She gave a watery chuckle, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the heels of both hands. ‘It was on the tip of me tongue to tell him that it were Mr Ellis, but I didn’t because I could just imagine what would happen. After all, I had promised Mrs Ellis never to say who the father was, and from what Dr Matthews said she honestly believes that what she plans to do is what I want. You see, to begin with I really didn’t want the baby and I reckon I said so practically every time we talked. Mrs Ellis said then that she would arrange to have it adopted and I was all for it. To tell you the truth, Mart, thinking back, I never really told her I’d changed my mind.’

‘She doesn’t know about my hope chest because I was saving it as a surprise,’ Rose reminded him. ‘Of course, I still haven’t got what they call at the clinic a complete layette, but I reckon I’ve got enough to be going on with.’ She looked shyly at Martin, tears still trembling on her sandy eyelashes. ‘To tell you the truth, Mart, I’ve always had an uneasy sort of feeling that she might try to interfere when the baby arrives. Oh, I don’t mean adoption – I never thought of that. I thought she might try to tell me what to do . . . you know . . . oh, I can’t explain, but I thought it would be better if I could manage without her help right from the start.’

Rose shrugged. ‘It don’t matter, because I shan’t be here,’ she said. ‘If I stay, they’ll take my baby, her and Mr Ellis. There won’t be a thing I can do to stop them because they’ll say I’m too young to look after it meself, or they might even say that Mr Ellis is the father and can do what he likes.’ Martin began to protest, to say that he would support her, but Rose cut him short. ‘It’s no good, Mart,’ she said miserably. ‘He’s a rich and powerful man and of course everyone who knows her admires Mrs Ellis. Anything they say will be believed. Any tale I tell would be dismissed as a tissue of lies. Even if they believed me, they’d still take the baby away and it’s mine!’ She glared across the table as though he had tried to contradict her words. ‘So I’m going, Mart, going as far away as I can get, and I’m going now!’

‘No, you aren’t,’ Martin said calmly, as Rose got to her feet and headed for the door. ‘Just you sit down again, our Rosie, and begin to think with that bright little brain of yours! You say Mrs Ellis means to take your baby, and I believe you, so we won’t lerrit happen. But she hasn’t tried to take you, has she? And until the baby is born, anyone who wants to take it will have to take you as well. Gerrit? But if Dr Matthews lets on that you want to keep it, then I suppose it’s possible that them wicked buggers might kidnap you, take you away to their castle and keep you under armed guard until after the birth. Is that what you’re afraid of, princess?’

‘The point is, queen, that if you run now, this minute, where do you mean to go?’ Martin said. ‘And what will we take with us? Then there’s my job; I wouldn’t like to let Mr Cornwallis down. If I could just give a week’s notice, I’d get my money and there’d be no hard feelings. And we’d still be away in plenty of time.’

Rose reached across the table and clutched Martin’s hands, squeezing them tightly. ‘Mart, did you really mean it when you said “we”? Would you come with me? I were goin’ to ask you if I could take Don because I remembered you sayin’ he protected you when you were sleepin’ rough, but I never thought to ask if you’d come as well.’

Martin shook his head reproachfully. ‘As if I’d let you go without me!’ he said. ‘You’ve been rare good to me, Rosie, letting me share this flat, taking care of me when I were ill, findin’ posh clothes for me interview so’s I got the job, cookin’ lovely meals . . .’

‘Oh, shurrup,’ Rose said with pretended wrath. ‘You’ve no idea how much safer I’ve felt in this block since you and Don moved in. I’m not scared of the neighbours any more – well, not very – and it’s been grand to have someone to go around with. Remember the picnic in Prince’s Park, when we fed the ducks and went for a row on the lake? I know it were bleedin’ cold but we had a grand day, didn’t we?’

‘We did,’ Martin agreed. ‘So are you going to leave in a week, instead of in a moment? Oh, Rosie, I know it’s hard on you because you might have to see Mrs Ellis and pretend you don’t know what she’s planning, but honest to God, girl, I promise you it’s for the best. We’ve got to get together all the money we can. We’ll have to sell your furniture, or some of it at any rate, and any clothing which you don’t actually need for the next few months. Money is a lot easier to carry than things, though we’ll take some food of course when we go. I suppose we could leave it a little longer, but I reckon you’d feel a lot safer if we went in a week, like I said. Wherever we go, you’ll need to put yourself on a doctor’s panel and book a hospital bed for the actual birth. So I reckon . . . let me see, today’s Friday, so we’ll leave a week on Monday, after I’ve been paid. If we go first thing, we should be OK.’