The Journey

Chapter 6

THE SUMMER OF 1930 was proving to be one of the most glorious on record, as if to compensate in some way for the misery of mass unemployment on Merseyside. Today, 25 May, the docklands were almost deserted but the narrow, meandering backstreets were as busy as ever. Young children played; scabby dogs lounged in cool, shadowy corners; floral-pinnied women in turbans busied themselves white-stoning their front doorsteps, pausing only for a snippet of gossip as a neighbour passed by; and having emptied gallons of milk from churn to jug, the milkman was on his lazy way home, the wheels of his cart clattering a tune on the cobbles … clickety-clack, clickety clack, drink your milk and I’ll be back … the children made up the song and as he passed by, they ran after him chanting the words, skipping away once he’d turned the corner.

Back down in the docks, sailors disembarked, glad to come ashore after being at sea for many months. Placards everywhere gave out the news: British Aviator Amy Johnson flies from London to Australia in nineteen and a half days.

‘There you go, boyo.’ The tall, bony man with the unkempt beard had been at sea for too long, and now at last, he was done with it. ‘While we’ve been conquering the seven seas, that brave lady’s been conquering the skies.’

‘Hmh!’ The younger man was rough in looks and rough in nature. ‘I’d rather her than me, up there all alone. I never have been able to stand my own company.’

The older man laughed. ‘That’s because you’re a miserable bugger, and I should know, being the unfortunate that had the next bunk to you.’

‘What d’you mean? We got on all right, didn’t we?’

‘That’s true – but only because when you’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean, you’ve either to get on with your shipmates, or jump off the ship. And I for one didn’t fancy being the sharks’ next meal.’

‘So where are you off to now?’

‘Home to South Wales, thank God. What about you? Where might you be headed?’

A crafty smile flickered over the younger man’s features. ‘I’ve a woman to see.’

‘A woman, eh?’ The other man knew of Edward Trent’s liking for the ladies, because he’d witnessed it many a time in port. ‘So, she’s another one you left behind, is she?’

‘Whether I left her behind or not, she’ll still be waiting for me.’

‘You’re an arrogant devil, I’ll give you that.’

‘I might stay this time … make an honest woman of her,’ Trent boasted.

The older man laughed out loud at the idea. ‘Never!’

‘Ah, but this one’s different. She’s full of fun, a real stunner. Moreover, she’ll do anything for me.’ He preened himself. ‘A man could do worse than settle down with a woman like Lucy Baker.’

‘Well, good luck to you then, boyo. As for me, I’m away to my beloved Wales. No more sailing the world’s oceans for me. I’m finished with all that.’

‘So, what will you do? There’s mass unemployment, you know. It may not be much of a picnic in your part of the world, matey.’

‘That won’t bother me.’ The older man took a deep, gratifying breath, and when he released it, the answer came with it. ‘I’ve not made up my mind yet, but what I do know is this: I’ll spend my days as I please, tending my bit of land and fishing, and not be driven by money and command. I’ve worked hard and saved my wages, and God willing, you’ll not see me again.’ With that he threw his kitbag over his shoulder and strode off, with never a look back.

Watching him go, the other man laughed under his breath. ‘That’s what they all say,’ he sneered, ‘and you’re no different from the rest.’ Dark-haired, dark-eyed and with a heart to match, Edward Trent was a regular Jack the Lad who fancied he should please every woman he came across, and he had done just that, in every port across the world.

We’re both going fishing, he thought as he walked on. I’ll leave you to catch the ones with the tails, Taffy Evans, while I settle for the others – the ones that pretend to fight you off when all they really want is for you to catch ’em and show ’em a good time.

As he left the docks and headed towards the nearest lodging-house, he had only one woman on his mind: a young and spritely thing, with long flowing hair and a smile that could melt a man’s heart from a mile off. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Lucy Baker!’ he chuckled. He hoped she’d kept her looks and taken care of herself, because Eddie boy was on his way!

He called her up in his mind and smiled. Even after two years away and countless other women, he’d still got a soft spot for her. She’d been a virgin when they’d met, a hardworking shop girl, still living with her parents, and she’d fallen for him hook, line and sinker. Who knows, if she treated him right, he might even consider putting a ring on her finger. Somehow, she had got to him, where the others hadn’t. Maybe it was her innocence and loyalty – things in short supply among the women he usually had dealings with.

He squared his shoulders and marched on. That doesn’t mean to say I’ll be staying for sure, he thought. Oh no! Like the man said, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and half the fun is catching them, then throwing them back for another day.

An hour and a half later, he had drunk a pint, had a strip-down wash and bedded the landlord’s daughter, twice. And now he was on a bus, headed for Kitchener Street, a mile or so from the docklands – number 14. He checked his notebook and scanned the many names there. Yes, that was it – Lucy Baker at number 14, Kitchener Street, Liverpool.

‘Will that be a return ticket, or one way?’ The conductor had his ticket-machine at the ready.

‘I might be coming back, or I might not.’ Edward liked to hedge his bets, especially as he didn’t quite know what awaited him. ‘I’ll have a return ticket, if you please.’

‘Return it is.’ Turning the handle on his machine, the conductor ran the ticket off. ‘That’ll be tuppence ha’penny.’

Twenty minutes later, the arrogant young seaman was strolling down Kitchener Street, checking the door numbers as he went. ‘Here we are!’ He had remembered the street as being long, with every house looking the same; narrow doors and white-stoned steps, and netted curtains up at the windows. But yes, this was the one – halfway down and looking exactly as he remembered. He rapped hard with the knocker.

After a couple of minutes, a plump, red-faced woman flung open the door. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re playing at?’ she demanded angrily. ‘I’m not deaf but I will be if you keep rattling the door like that?’

‘I’m looking for Lucy Baker.’ He’d forgotten that familiar lilt of the Liverpudlian tongue; it was a comforting sound to a man who had travelled a hostile world.

‘The Bakers don’t live here no more.’ Leaning forward, the red-faced woman looked up and down the street. Content that she would not be overheard, she confided, ‘There was a bit of a to-do in the family, if you know what I mean.’ And seeing that he did not know, she went on, ‘Ted Baker – Lucy’s father – he took another woman to his bed, d’yer see? Then his poor missus chucked him out, and rightly so if you ask me!’

‘I don’t need to know all the ins and outs,’ he told her irritably. ‘I just need to find Lucy.’

‘I’m coming to that. When Lucy’s dad was thrown out, he moved in with his new woman – went to live on York Street, they did – and good riddance to ’em! This house became vacant, and me an’ my Eric moved in. Been here a while now.’

‘So Lucy went with her father, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Did I say that?’ She liked to tell her story properly, and wasn’t finished yet. ‘Well, soon after she gave him the old heave-ho, his missus upped sticks and buggered off and nobody knows where she went.’

‘So where is Lucy?’ Frustration rose in him. ‘What happened to her?’

‘Oh, aye, you might well ask!’

‘I am asking, and I’d be obliged if you’d give me an answer.’ Trent had no patience with folks like this, especially after the travelling. He’d come a long way to get here, and no doubt he’d be going a long way back, sooner or later. So, there was no time to be wasting.

‘All I can say is, it’s a good job Lucy was the only child.’ Folding her fat little sausage arms, the woman rattled on: ‘Y’see, her mam had such terrible trouble bearing a child. Lost four of ’em over the years, she did, an’ as if that isn’t enough to be putting up with, ’er scoundrel of a husband ends up in some other woman’s bed. Shame on him, that’s what I say!’

‘That’s enough o’ the chatter, lady! All I want is the whereabouts of Lucy.’ Another minute and he might end up strangling the old biddy.

Not one to be bullied, she declared sharply, ‘Hold yer ’orses. I were just getting to that!’

‘For Chrissake, woman, get on with it, then! Where the bloody hell is she?’ When he now took a step forward, the red-faced woman took a step back.

‘She’s moved in wi’ Bridget.’

‘Who the hell’s Bridget?’

The fat little woman gave a wicked grin. ‘Everybody knows Bridget!’

‘Well, here’s one who doesn’t.’ When he took another step forward, she took another step back. ‘I couldn’t give a toss about Bridget. Just tell me where my girlfriend is, and I’ll trouble you no more.’

‘All right! All right! There’s no need to get aeryated. I already told you, I were coming to that.’

When he glared at her, she nervously cleared her throat and hurriedly explained, ‘Bridget is a woman well-known in these parts … particularly by the men, do you get my drift? Oh yes, she might be generous with her favours, but she charges well enough, and so do her girls, though o’ course we ain’t supposed to know about what goes on in that place. The bizzies’ll put her away if she’s found out, an’ none of us would want to be responsible for putting Bridget away, nor any of her girls neither.’

She took a well-deserved breath. ‘For all her wrongdoings, she’s gorra good heart, has Bridget, and she’ll help anybody in trouble. Lives along Viaduct Street, number twenty-three. You’ll find Lucy there.’

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