‘their Meggie’, the tomboy sister they were so used to, the confrontation with Fancy O’Neill buried deeply, firmly, in the pit of their minds where it could do them no harm, and her growing, maturing loveliness escaped their casual young men’s interest. Her hair was piled on top of her head, more to keep it out of her way when she was working than to follow fashion, but loosely so that there was a soft fullness around her face. Springing curls escaped to lie about her forehead, above her ears and on the smooth skin at the nape of her neck.
‘Yes!’ Martin stood up abruptly and began to pace the room and they all watched him, waiting expectantly.
‘Well!’ Mrs Whitley said impatiently.
‘Well …’
‘Oh for pity’ sake, lad, get on with it!’
He turned decisively. Looking her full in the face in the manner of one who is to sink or swim on his next words, he spoke jerkily.
‘I want to go to night school!’
Mrs Whitley blinked, then sat up slowly straightening her back, crossing her plump arms beneath her thrusting bosom.
‘Do you indeed? And who is to pay for it, may I ask,
and
, more to the point, how are you to find the time. You have work to do at night and …’
‘The classes cost nothing, Mrs Whitley. It’s the Collegiate Institute in Shaw Street. It was built to provide an education for the commercial, trading and working classes of Liverpool,’ he said, parrot fashion as though he had repeated the words over and over again. ‘I shall learn mechanical engineering and draughtsmanship. Twice a week and I’ll do my work still, never fear but at some other time … if you don’t mind …’ he added hastily.
Meg could contain herself no longer. ‘What sort of classes are those, Martin? What does it mean … er … mechanical engine … and what was it … draughtsman something or other …?’ Her voice was excited and her face glowed with the wonder of it all but Mrs Whitley made short work of
her
!
‘Never you mind, miss! This is nothing to do with you!’ She turned again, her fat cheeks wobbling in outrage but before she could make short work of
him
too, Martin moved across the kitchen and in a way which was as simple as that of a child about to say its prayers, knelt down before her and took her hands in his. She would have shaken him off but he calmed her with a curiously adult dignity, forcing her to look into his face.
‘I’m speaking to you first, Mrs Whitley because the work I do affects you as much as Mr Lloyd but when I have your permission I mean to put it to him. I promise you it won’t interfere with what I do here. I shall make some adjustments …’
‘Adjustments!’ How grown up he is suddenly, Mrs Whitley had time to consider – then she was captured again by the simple conviction in his voice.
‘I want to be an engineer, you see, Mrs Whitley and I can’t do it if I don’t learn how!’
The room was silent. They could not have been more dumbfounded had he said he was to take the train to London to be a guest of his Majesty the King. An engineer, their collective minds considered, barely aware even of what that was! They had all heard of men with such titles who built bridges and railways and so on but what was that to do with their Martin? He was an odd-job boy, for goodness’ sake and would no doubt, if he worked conscientiously for Mr Lloyd, one day be a steward, and agent, or even, God willing, a manager, but an
engineer
!
‘I’ve not had much schooling,’ Martin continued, his voice falling strongly into the stunned quiet his announcement had created. ‘I can read and write and do sums but there’s more to it than that. You know how … how good I am with machinery. I can mend things, I always have done. I don’t know how, or why I can do it. When I was eight years old I took Matron’s watch to pieces when she said it wouldn’t go and when I put it together again … it went! You’ve seen me mend things, haven’t you?’
Mrs Whitley
‘Yes!’ Martin stood up abruptly and began to pace the room and they all watched him, waiting expectantly.
‘Well!’ Mrs Whitley said impatiently.
‘Well …’
‘Oh for pity’ sake, lad, get on with it!’
He turned decisively. Looking her full in the face in the manner of one who is to sink or swim on his next words, he spoke jerkily.
‘I want to go to night school!’
Mrs Whitley blinked, then sat up slowly straightening her back, crossing her plump arms beneath her thrusting bosom.
‘Do you indeed? And who is to pay for it, may I ask,
and
, more to the point, how are you to find the time. You have work to do at night and …’
‘The classes cost nothing, Mrs Whitley. It’s the Collegiate Institute in Shaw Street. It was built to provide an education for the commercial, trading and working classes of Liverpool,’ he said, parrot fashion as though he had repeated the words over and over again. ‘I shall learn mechanical engineering and draughtsmanship. Twice a week and I’ll do my work still, never fear but at some other time … if you don’t mind …’ he added hastily.
Meg could contain herself no longer. ‘What sort of classes are those, Martin? What does it mean … er … mechanical engine … and what was it … draughtsman something or other …?’ Her voice was excited and her face glowed with the wonder of it all but Mrs Whitley made short work of
her
!
‘Never you mind, miss! This is nothing to do with you!’ She turned again, her fat cheeks wobbling in outrage but before she could make short work of
him
too, Martin moved across the kitchen and in a way which was as simple as that of a child about to say its prayers, knelt down before her and took her hands in his. She would have shaken him off but he calmed her with a curiously adult dignity, forcing her to look into his face.
‘I’m speaking to you first, Mrs Whitley because the work I do affects you as much as Mr Lloyd but when I have your permission I mean to put it to him. I promise you it won’t interfere with what I do here. I shall make some adjustments …’
‘Adjustments!’ How grown up he is suddenly, Mrs Whitley had time to consider – then she was captured again by the simple conviction in his voice.
‘I want to be an engineer, you see, Mrs Whitley and I can’t do it if I don’t learn how!’
The room was silent. They could not have been more dumbfounded had he said he was to take the train to London to be a guest of his Majesty the King. An engineer, their collective minds considered, barely aware even of what that was! They had all heard of men with such titles who built bridges and railways and so on but what was that to do with their Martin? He was an odd-job boy, for goodness’ sake and would no doubt, if he worked conscientiously for Mr Lloyd, one day be a steward, and agent, or even, God willing, a manager, but an
engineer
!
‘I’ve not had much schooling,’ Martin continued, his voice falling strongly into the stunned quiet his announcement had created. ‘I can read and write and do sums but there’s more to it than that. You know how … how good I am with machinery. I can mend things, I always have done. I don’t know how, or why I can do it. When I was eight years old I took Matron’s watch to pieces when she said it wouldn’t go and when I put it together again … it went! You’ve seen me mend things, haven’t you?’
Mrs Whitley
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