girls had not met for a year she crossed the road at once. ‘Bridget O’Shaughnessy, if it isn’t yourself,’ she gasped. ‘I thought you’d gone back to Ireland wi’ your Mam, cos we’ve not seen hide nor hair of you down our way for so long. What’s been ’appenin’ to you?’
‘A lot,’ Biddy admitted, linking her arm with Ellen’s. ‘Have you got a minute, Ellen? Because it’s a long story and right now I’m in a bit of a pickle and I’d appreciate some advice.’
‘Advice? I’m your gal for advice,’ Ellen said. ‘Ask away, queen.’
Biddy noticed that her old friend looked very smart and had grown beautiful since they had last met. She must be well over sixteen, Biddy calculated, since Ellen had been a class above her in school, and she looked very self-assured. Her smooth yellow hair was fashionably short, her lips looked a good deal redder than Biddy remembered them, and her brows and lashes had been darkened. Biddy glanced at the brown and cream two-piece suit and the high-heeled brown shoes on Ellen’s feet, then wished fervently that she had not been sent out in her boil-ups – the sugar-stained white apron, the draggly skirt, the blouse spotted and scarred with the making of a thousand sweetmeats. But having called to her friend, she had best explain herself.
‘Well, first off, my Mam died a year ago next September. They sacked her from her job six months before she died and we had nowhere nice to go, but we’d have managed if she’d stayed well. After she died I couldn’t afford to stay on in our room so I agreed to move in with the Kettles; I was working at Kettle’s Confectionery, still am, and that’s all part of my problem.’
‘Change your job, then,’ Ellen said, without waiting for Biddy to finish speaking. She led the way to a pile of empty crates outside a butcher’s shop and perched on one, patting the space beside her to indicate that Biddy should join her. Biddy did so and the two of them sat there in the morning sunshine, watching the passers-by with unheeding eyes whilst they talked. ‘Don’t tell me Ma Kettle pays you enough to keep yourself … We’re poor but honest, us Kettles; ask anyone ,’ she mimicked. ‘I’ve not been in there for years, but when we were kids we reckoned she give short weight, the old devil.’
‘Well, that was a long time ago,’ Biddy said tactfully. She did not intend to get involved in a discussion of her employer’s morals. ‘The thing is, Ellen, she gives me bed and board but she don’t pay me. Well, think about it – where could I afford to live on the sort of money I could earn? I’m younger than you, too, I’m only just fifteen. So as far as I can make out, Ma Kettle’s got me for another year or so.’
‘Yeah … don’t you have no relatives, though, Bid? Usually, when someone’s Mam dies, relatives take you in.’
‘Well, I’ve got relatives, of course, but they’re all in Ireland,’ Biddy said. ‘I’ve never met them. My Mam ran away with my Da, you see, and they came to Liverpool. Her sisters and brother, and my Gran and Grandad, must be there still. Mam tried to write when she first married, but not even her sisters bothered to reply. Then she wrote again when Da was killed, and never had so much as a word of sympathy, let alone an offer of help. So I couldn’t expect them to do anything for me, could I?’
‘Well, I don’t know; it isn’t you they were annoyed with,’ Ellen began, then shrugged and sighed. ‘But if Ma Kettle don’t pay you much – sorry, if she don’t pay you anything – then you wouldn’t be able to afford the ferry across the Irish sea, so that knocks that idea on the ’ead. So is that your problem? Gettin’ in touch wi’ your relatives?’
‘Oh Ellen, of course it isn’t,’ Biddy said, exasperated with her friend’s butterfly mind. If that was what growing beautiful did to you, she herself had better stay plain. ‘I told you it had to do with the Kettles.
‘A lot,’ Biddy admitted, linking her arm with Ellen’s. ‘Have you got a minute, Ellen? Because it’s a long story and right now I’m in a bit of a pickle and I’d appreciate some advice.’
‘Advice? I’m your gal for advice,’ Ellen said. ‘Ask away, queen.’
Biddy noticed that her old friend looked very smart and had grown beautiful since they had last met. She must be well over sixteen, Biddy calculated, since Ellen had been a class above her in school, and she looked very self-assured. Her smooth yellow hair was fashionably short, her lips looked a good deal redder than Biddy remembered them, and her brows and lashes had been darkened. Biddy glanced at the brown and cream two-piece suit and the high-heeled brown shoes on Ellen’s feet, then wished fervently that she had not been sent out in her boil-ups – the sugar-stained white apron, the draggly skirt, the blouse spotted and scarred with the making of a thousand sweetmeats. But having called to her friend, she had best explain herself.
‘Well, first off, my Mam died a year ago next September. They sacked her from her job six months before she died and we had nowhere nice to go, but we’d have managed if she’d stayed well. After she died I couldn’t afford to stay on in our room so I agreed to move in with the Kettles; I was working at Kettle’s Confectionery, still am, and that’s all part of my problem.’
‘Change your job, then,’ Ellen said, without waiting for Biddy to finish speaking. She led the way to a pile of empty crates outside a butcher’s shop and perched on one, patting the space beside her to indicate that Biddy should join her. Biddy did so and the two of them sat there in the morning sunshine, watching the passers-by with unheeding eyes whilst they talked. ‘Don’t tell me Ma Kettle pays you enough to keep yourself … We’re poor but honest, us Kettles; ask anyone ,’ she mimicked. ‘I’ve not been in there for years, but when we were kids we reckoned she give short weight, the old devil.’
‘Well, that was a long time ago,’ Biddy said tactfully. She did not intend to get involved in a discussion of her employer’s morals. ‘The thing is, Ellen, she gives me bed and board but she don’t pay me. Well, think about it – where could I afford to live on the sort of money I could earn? I’m younger than you, too, I’m only just fifteen. So as far as I can make out, Ma Kettle’s got me for another year or so.’
‘Yeah … don’t you have no relatives, though, Bid? Usually, when someone’s Mam dies, relatives take you in.’
‘Well, I’ve got relatives, of course, but they’re all in Ireland,’ Biddy said. ‘I’ve never met them. My Mam ran away with my Da, you see, and they came to Liverpool. Her sisters and brother, and my Gran and Grandad, must be there still. Mam tried to write when she first married, but not even her sisters bothered to reply. Then she wrote again when Da was killed, and never had so much as a word of sympathy, let alone an offer of help. So I couldn’t expect them to do anything for me, could I?’
‘Well, I don’t know; it isn’t you they were annoyed with,’ Ellen began, then shrugged and sighed. ‘But if Ma Kettle don’t pay you much – sorry, if she don’t pay you anything – then you wouldn’t be able to afford the ferry across the Irish sea, so that knocks that idea on the ’ead. So is that your problem? Gettin’ in touch wi’ your relatives?’
‘Oh Ellen, of course it isn’t,’ Biddy said, exasperated with her friend’s butterfly mind. If that was what growing beautiful did to you, she herself had better stay plain. ‘I told you it had to do with the Kettles.
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