before I speak dacent to you again, sister.’
This time Grainne did not reply and the two of them walked on, elbows almost touching but hearts and minds a mile apart, into the soft spring dusk.
Chapter Two
Liverpool, March 1904
Ellen awoke. For some time she had been dimly aware of a disturbance; faint cries, the occasional muttered curse, but she hadn’t been able to wake herself up to find out what was going on. She had been late to bed, for a start, and for once the pile of blankets and old coats which covered her had felt warm and adequate, from which she deduced that the bitter cold was beginning to break at last.
Now that she was awake, however, she stirred cautiously, opening one eye and squinting towards the window. It was a paler square in the darkness to be sure, but it wasn’t morning yet. Not by a long chalk. So why the fuss? The drunks had tottered home hours ago, her new stepfather was at sea, her mother . . .
Her mother! There was a baby on the way – could this noise be a sign of its imminent arrival? Ada Docherty had said only last evening that her back ached and that the baby should not be long now. Ellen sat up, reluctantly pushing the covers back and letting her bare feet dangle inches above the floor. Because she was the only girl in the family she had a tiny box of a room to herself, whilst her brothers – Dick, Ozzie, Fred and Bertie – shared the larger room next door. It wasn’t bad being the only girl in some ways – you had a bed to yourself for a start, the boys shared, four to an ancient, creaking wooden bedstead – but it did mean you were the only one who helped your mam. Boys sometimes ran messages and carried water, but for the most part it was the girl who worked around the house, even when she was only ten, as Ellen was, with brothers whose ages ranged from Dick, who was sixteen and working, to Bertie, who was eleven and therefore the nearest to Ellen in age.
There had been quiet since Ellen sat up and she was actually considering rolling back into her warm bed when she distinctly heard her mother’s voice. Faintly, she was calling Ellen’s name. Immediately Ellen jumped out of bed, ran across the icy-cold floorboards and out of her room. She closed the door quietly, though; she didn’t want to wake the boys, who would sleep through anything when you needed them and woke at a whisper when you didn’t. Boys, in Ellen’s experience, had a short way with sisters who woke them from a good sleep. Not that she would hesitate to wake them if the need arose, of course. They weren’t bad, her brothers, but they didn’t know their own strength. A playful clout from Dick or Ozzie could really hurt, but if she cried they called her names . . . Mammy’s pet, teacher’s boot-licker . . . which could hurt as badly as a clip round the ear, so by and large Ellen avoided conflict or even disagreement with brothers so much bigger and stronger than she.
‘Ellen, love, can you come?’
The faint voice from the direction of her mother’s room had Ellen rushing across the landing at once. She shot open the door and went over to the bed. Her mother lay on it, propped up by a couple of pillows, her pretty, night-black curls draggly now, her beautiful face streaked with sweat and the colour of cheese, a sort of yellowy grey. She was endeavouring to take off a stained woollen jacket and Ellen, feeling the cold already invading her own nightgown and underclothing, remonstrated gently.
‘Did you ought to tek ’em off, Mam? You’ll freeze.’
On the bed, Ada Docherty smiled faintly, but continued to struggle out of the garment. ‘It’s awright, chuck, I’m like an oven,’ she said breathlessly. ‘The baby’s comin’, you see, Ellie, so I want me clean nightgown, the one wi’ the lace collar. Can you find it up for me an’ help me into it? Then you’d best gerroff and fetch Mrs Bluett. I’m a bit long in the tooth for havin’ babies so your dad paid for Mrs Bluett to
This time Grainne did not reply and the two of them walked on, elbows almost touching but hearts and minds a mile apart, into the soft spring dusk.
Chapter Two
Liverpool, March 1904
Ellen awoke. For some time she had been dimly aware of a disturbance; faint cries, the occasional muttered curse, but she hadn’t been able to wake herself up to find out what was going on. She had been late to bed, for a start, and for once the pile of blankets and old coats which covered her had felt warm and adequate, from which she deduced that the bitter cold was beginning to break at last.
Now that she was awake, however, she stirred cautiously, opening one eye and squinting towards the window. It was a paler square in the darkness to be sure, but it wasn’t morning yet. Not by a long chalk. So why the fuss? The drunks had tottered home hours ago, her new stepfather was at sea, her mother . . .
Her mother! There was a baby on the way – could this noise be a sign of its imminent arrival? Ada Docherty had said only last evening that her back ached and that the baby should not be long now. Ellen sat up, reluctantly pushing the covers back and letting her bare feet dangle inches above the floor. Because she was the only girl in the family she had a tiny box of a room to herself, whilst her brothers – Dick, Ozzie, Fred and Bertie – shared the larger room next door. It wasn’t bad being the only girl in some ways – you had a bed to yourself for a start, the boys shared, four to an ancient, creaking wooden bedstead – but it did mean you were the only one who helped your mam. Boys sometimes ran messages and carried water, but for the most part it was the girl who worked around the house, even when she was only ten, as Ellen was, with brothers whose ages ranged from Dick, who was sixteen and working, to Bertie, who was eleven and therefore the nearest to Ellen in age.
There had been quiet since Ellen sat up and she was actually considering rolling back into her warm bed when she distinctly heard her mother’s voice. Faintly, she was calling Ellen’s name. Immediately Ellen jumped out of bed, ran across the icy-cold floorboards and out of her room. She closed the door quietly, though; she didn’t want to wake the boys, who would sleep through anything when you needed them and woke at a whisper when you didn’t. Boys, in Ellen’s experience, had a short way with sisters who woke them from a good sleep. Not that she would hesitate to wake them if the need arose, of course. They weren’t bad, her brothers, but they didn’t know their own strength. A playful clout from Dick or Ozzie could really hurt, but if she cried they called her names . . . Mammy’s pet, teacher’s boot-licker . . . which could hurt as badly as a clip round the ear, so by and large Ellen avoided conflict or even disagreement with brothers so much bigger and stronger than she.
‘Ellen, love, can you come?’
The faint voice from the direction of her mother’s room had Ellen rushing across the landing at once. She shot open the door and went over to the bed. Her mother lay on it, propped up by a couple of pillows, her pretty, night-black curls draggly now, her beautiful face streaked with sweat and the colour of cheese, a sort of yellowy grey. She was endeavouring to take off a stained woollen jacket and Ellen, feeling the cold already invading her own nightgown and underclothing, remonstrated gently.
‘Did you ought to tek ’em off, Mam? You’ll freeze.’
On the bed, Ada Docherty smiled faintly, but continued to struggle out of the garment. ‘It’s awright, chuck, I’m like an oven,’ she said breathlessly. ‘The baby’s comin’, you see, Ellie, so I want me clean nightgown, the one wi’ the lace collar. Can you find it up for me an’ help me into it? Then you’d best gerroff and fetch Mrs Bluett. I’m a bit long in the tooth for havin’ babies so your dad paid for Mrs Bluett to
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