The Mersey Girls

Chapter One

May 1913

As the faint chimes from the church clock stole across the dark waters of the lough, Maeve Murphy sat up on one elbow, struggling out of the depths of sleep. She did not know what had woken her, only that something had. A sound? A voice, perhaps? She turned her head cautiously and checked that Nora, with whom she shared her bed, was still fast asleep, then glanced across the small attic room towards the bed shared by two of her three younger sisters. Had one of them stirred, called out? But the girls slept, Clodagh curled up into a tight little ball, Éanna sprawled on her back, her beautiful lips just parted, a tiny snore curling rhythmically from her mouth. Maeve listened again. Yes, there had been a sound – a creak, and not just the usual creak of an old house settling either. This was the sort of creak, lively yet furtive, which meant that someone was awake and trying to move about the house without disturbing others.

Was it time to get up, then? Maeve glanced towards the uncurtained window; the sky was still dark, she could see stars twinkling, and there was not a sound from outside, not even a bird cheeped, forestalling the dawn chorus. Later the farmyard cock would start to clear his throat ready for his first cock-a-doodle, but right now the household should be wrapped in slumber, not prowling around. The last creak, Maeve was fairly sure, had come as a foot landed gently on the last stair but one.

Still, it was probably only a cat having a snoop round whilst the rest of the house slept. Maeve was about to lie down again when it occurred to her that her sister, Evie, who had slept in the small bedroom next door to their father’s room ever since her twin daughters had been born, might be up and doing. Immediately Maeve swung her feet out of bed, listening more intently than ever. Evie was barely seventeen and Maeve, the oldest of the five Murphy girls, had taken upon herself the care of the smallest, frailest twin. If Evie had gone down to feed them or change them she would appreciate Maeve’s presence.

Maeve shuffled a bit further down the bed and reached for her shawl, draped across the bedpost. She wrapped it firmly around her shoulders, glad of its soft, woolly warmth. Although the month was May it was still chilly in the early hours and her flannel petticoat wasn’t much protection against the cold. Then she stood up, carefully tucked her side of the bed in – Nora did not even stir – and tiptoed over to the door. It opened silently, because when five lively young girls share a house with an elderly father it behoves them to keep their door-hinges well-oiled, and Maeve slid out on to the steps which, ladderlike, descended to the upper landing.

Outside Evie’s room she hesitated; should she peep inside, just make sure? No one would burgle the Murphys because there was nothing to steal, but there was usually food in the pantry and there were always gipsies and tramps eager to fill their bellies. She put a hand on the door knob, then drew it back as a sound from downstairs reached her ears; there was definitely someone in the kitchen, she could hear quiet footsteps padding across the hard earth floor!

That settled it: they either had an intruder, in which case two people were better than one, or Evie had got up. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she opened Evie’s door. One glance at the bed showed her that it was empty, the covers pushed back, the pillow still dented from the impression of Evie’s head.

Relief washed over Maeve in waves. She turned away from her sister’s room and ran down the stairs, not bothering to go particularly quietly. At the bottom, in the small, square hall, she turned at once to the kitchen, though she opened the door softly enough.

At first she thought the room was empty: moonlight streamed through the two low windows overlooking the farmyard, turning the room into a symphony of black and silver. Puzzled, Maeve took a step into the room . . . then stopped short, a hand flying to her heart.

By the fireplace, something moved. A figure stood there, on tiptoe, reaching up for the battered teapot which stood directly under the grandmother clock. A hand, white in the moonlight, was already curled round the blackened pewter pot.

‘Evie! What on earth . . . ?’

Evie spun round, leaving the teapot still rocking from her touch. Her face looked white as a ghost, her eyes black pits. She gasped, then relaxed. ‘Maeve! Dear God, girl, I nearly died. What are you doing down here at this time of night? I thought everyone was asleep, so I did.’

Maeve walked over to the fire and took a taper from the box by the hearth. She lit it, then held the flame to the candle on the end of the dresser. Her mind was working furiously; Evie was fully dressed, this was no trip downstairs to fetch something for one of her babies, this was . . .

‘What are you doing, Evie?’ she said evenly. ‘I came down because I heard you creepin’ down the stairs. Where’s the babies?’

‘In bed, Maeve, me love, it’s the middle of the night; where else would me darlin’s be but in their bed?’

In the candlelight, Maeve looked hard and long at her younger sister. Evie was so beautiful, that was the trouble, it became difficult not to believe every word uttered by those pink, perfect lips!

‘Evie, you’re fully dressed,’ Maeve said, changing tack. ‘Where were you going?’

‘Were going, Maeve?’ Evie sighed and turned back to the mantelpiece. She reached up and took the teapot down, then stood there cradling it. And when she spoke again it was with more than a touch of defiance. ‘I am going. In ten minutes or so a cart’ll pull in off the main road. I arranged it a day or so ago, it’ll take me down to the station. Oh, Maeve, you know I can’t stay here for the rest of me life – you wouldn’t want it for me, would you? The disapproval’s enough to break my heart, and besides, I’m wasted here. I’ll never get anywhere, do anything . . . be anyone, come to that, whilst I stay in Cahersiveen. So I’m leaving, going to – to seek me fortune, you could say.’

‘And you’re taking the housekeeping money,’ Maeve stated calmly, jerking her head at the pewter teapot. ‘That’s stealing, Evie, no matter how you justify it. And what about your little girls, then?’

‘I’m taking Linnet with me, but I can’t burden meself with two of them,’ Evie said defensively. ‘Besides, what’ud you do, Maeve me darlin’, if I took Lucy as well? You’d miss them both sore, you know you would. And leaving Lucy shows I mean to come back – but I can’t take ’em both or I’ll never get rich and famous!’

The last words were almost a wail. Despite herself, Maeve smiled.

‘Oh, Evie, what does rich and famous matter, after all? Isn’t it better to be happy here, with your two little girls? To live a good life?’

Evie shrugged her shoulders and set the teapot down on the table. She took the lid off it and tipped the contents very gently out onto a cloth she had already placed there to receive it. Then she wrapped the money in the cloth and pushed the small bundle down into the shabby bag which Maeve now saw at her sister’s feet.

‘I can’t settle to it and never could,’ she said honestly. ‘Country living’s always drove me mad . . . I should’ve gone a year back, only it seemed a big thing to do. And then Jan didn’t want me to leave, said to wait a while, so I stayed . . . and look what happened!’

‘Jan Wilde’s a good feller and would have taken you and the babies on, if only you’d let him,’ Maeve reminded her sister. ‘But if you don’t want Jan why in God’s name didn’t you marry the Ronald feller from England? You let him give you the babies, so you must have liked him. Or at least you could’ve got his address, so our Dad could have sent someone looking for him, told him what he’d done.’

‘I don’t want to marry anyone,’ Evie said pettishly. ‘You don’t understand about babies, Maeve, that Englishman was dull as ditchwater; if I hadn’t been so bored I’d never have let him do more than kiss me, so there!’

‘Indeed, madam? Then why not marry Jan Wilde if you weren’t in love with that blackhearted English? He’d be good to you, treat you right.’

‘Because I can’t bear the thought of scratching a living from a poor little place all me life, because I know there’s more to me than Jan could possibly appreciate. I’m a good actress; I sing like an angel and dance like a . . . a dervish, and I can imitate voices so folk don’t know it’s me,’ Evie said definitely. ‘And it isn’t just me that thinks so, Maeve me love; that Ronald feller knew a thing or two and he said I was talented, in the right hands he said I’d go far.’

‘He was a big-mouth,’ Maeve said bitterly. ‘He comes for a holiday after an illness, turns your head, gets you pregnant and then leaves, never realising the harm he’s done. I hope the good God has shown him the error of his ways, even if ’tis too late for you to come to your senses.’

‘Well, I am talented, and I shall go far despite all of you,’ Evie said hotly. ‘Did you think I’d stay here for ever, rotting away, while other girls went to Dublin, to England, and had all the fun and excitement?’

‘Once you’d had the babies . . .’ Maeve began patiently, only to be briskly interrupted.

‘Oh, the babies, the babies! One little slip from grace and you’d condemn me for the rest of me life! You’re as bad as the others, Maeve Murphy, and I always thought you understood!’

‘I do understand, alanna, and I know you’re a good actress and beautiful, too. But how can you go back to Dublin with a child under each arm? Who’ll take you seriously as an actress when you’re hung about with babies? Leave it a few years, until they’re older . . .’

‘Until I’m older you mean,’ Evie snapped. ‘I’ve got to strike whilst the iron’s hot, Maeve – I’ve got to! And it’ll work, I promise you, because I’ve learned me lesson. This time I’ll steer clear of the fellers and be single-minded and really work at my career, I won’t listen to any man, no matter how sweetly he talks. I’ll make a name for myself and then . . . then you and little Lucy can come and visit me in London, or Paris, or – or New York, and I’ll buy a mansion and we’ll all live happily ever after!’

‘They’re just daydreams, alanna,’ Maeve said gently. ‘Put the money back like a good girl and go and get into your bed. I’ll make us a cup of tea and by the time you’ve drunk it you’ll be sleepy again and tomorrow you’ll realise that there’s a good life for you here – a good man, too. Why, half the young men in the town would give their eye-teeth for a smile from Miss Evie Murphy!’

‘I don’t care about local fellers and that’s no more’n the truth. I’m going, Maeve, and if you try to stop me then I promise you’ll never set eyes on me again, as long as I live,’ Evie said hysterically. ‘I can’t stay here and rot – I won’t! You can stop me tonight, but you can’t stand guard over me for the rest of my life. I’ll get away, and if I do it that way I’ll never come back, I swear it.’

The two girls stood on opposite sides of the table, the teapot between them, the candle casting its flickering shadows over the smooth oval of Evie’s face and the rich glory of her thickly curling wheat-coloured locks. Maeve knew that the same shadows danced over her own plain and bony visage, over tear-filled eyes and lank, dust-coloured hair; but right now it was not Evie’s beauty nor her own ugliness which was in question, it was whose will would prove stronger.

For what seemed like an eternity they stood there, eyes locked, then Maeve sighed and let her glance drop before the icy determination in her little sister’s gaze. If she held out, she knew, she would lose Evie and she could not bear that.

‘All right. If you must go, you must. Take Linnet and come back for Lucy when you’re able,’ Maeve said in a small, colourless voice. ‘Remember, Evie, that we love you. Don’t forget us, whatever happens. We’ll always be here for you.’

The ice in Evie’s glance melted and tears brimmed over and trickled down her cheeks. She ran round to her sister and put her arms round her, giving her a hard hug.

‘Maeve, me darling, as if I could ever forget you. You’re the best thing that happened to me, you’ve been like a mother to me – better than most mothers from what I’ve seen. And I’ll come back to you, I swear it, when I’m rich and famous. And – and I’ll take great care of Linnet . . . I’ll write to you every week. Oh, darling Maeve, you’ll never regret what you’ve done tonight.’

‘Don’t wait till you’re rich and famous,’ Maeve said with a slight smile. ‘I’ll fetch Linnet for you, shall I?’

‘She’s already in the sling you made for me, sleepin’ like a little angel,’ Evie said with a sparkling look towards the big fireside chair. ‘Did you not see her, in the shadows? Oh, Maeve, look at the time – give me a kiss, dear, then I must run. I dare not lose me lift into town.’

The sisters kissed, Evie clinging for a moment, then Maeve went over to the big fireside chair and lifted the sling and its rosy, sleeping occupant, helping Evie to arrange the sling so that the baby lay comfortably against her breast, leaving the young mother’s hands free.

‘Now isn’t that grand?’ Evie murmured. ‘I’ve got a bag with a few things in . . .’

‘The bag’s awful light,’ Maeve said uneasily, picking the shabby little holdall up from the floor. ‘Are you not taking food and drink for your journey?’

‘No need,’ Evie assured her. She took the bag and put a hand on the back door latch. ‘I’ve got me best dress and some stuff for Linnet . . . hark, can you hear that rumbling? It’s me lift coming across the river-bridge. Oh, Maeve, I do love you; hold onto that! And take care of Lucy for me.’

‘I will alanna, but I wish . . .’ Maeve began, but her sister had slipped out of the doorway and was crossing the dark farmyard on quick, light feet. Maeve went and stood on the big, cold flags, watching the younger girl while tears ran down her cheeks, but Evie did not look back. She turned out of the yard and into the lane and Maeve strained her eyes but could see only Evie’s hair, pale as the moon’s glow, and her slim ankles beneath the dark coat. She watched, a hand pressed to her mouth, until a bend in the lane hid Evie from her view. Only then did she turn back into the candlelit kitchen.

Gone! Maeve doused the candle and crossed the dark room, suddenly aware of ice-cold feet and a heavy heart. She had let Evie go – but how could she have stopped her? She could have insisted that Evie take both babies but it would have been wickedly unfair on little Lucy. The smaller of the twins was not a bouncing, rosy-cheeked child like her sister, she was pale and frail. At four months old Linnet had not seemed at all bothered when her mother had weaned her from the breast onto bottled cow’s milk, whereas little Lucy had not taken to the bottle at all. She cried a lot, drank a small quantity from her bottle very slowly and reluctantly and then sicked half of it up again, usually all over whoever was bringing up her wind. Placid, fat Linnet seldom cried, played with her pink toes and chuckled and cooed. But Lucy suffered from colic, bringing her pointed knees hard up into her small stomach whilst she screamed with pain. Maeve had noticed that even the slightest change in her routine brought about an attack, and weaning the smaller twin was a painful process which Evie had left almost entirely to Maeve.

I should thank the good Lord that Evie didn’t suggest taking Lucy, Maeve told herself, wearily climbing the stairs on her ice-cold feet. Evie could never manage the smaller twin – at least with a healthy, happy child like Linnet she has a head start, and I can manage Lucy meself, no problem.

Outside Evie’s bedroom door, she paused. If she left Lucy to slumber on undisturbed the child would not waken until six or so, but then, with Maeve having had such a disturbed night, would she herself wake before Lucy’s howls had aroused the entire household? Their father was not a particularly patient man and had been heartbroken when his favourite daughter had produced twin girls and no husband to go with them. Indeed, Padraig Murphy had been deeply disappointed when the wife of his bosom had presented him with no fewer than five daughters and not one single son, though he had grieved over her death for they had been a fond couple. Nevertheless, he felt that fate had dealt unfairly with him.

‘Fine it is for herself, a-choirin’ wi’ the angels on high,’ he had observed sourly in the hearing of the eleven-year-old Maeve. ‘And here am I, left lit’rally holdin’ the babby.’

But it had been Maeve who had brought Evie up, with very little help from her other sisters, and even less from Padraig, though he had adored his youngest daughter and revelled in her pretty, loving ways. Plain old Maeve, the only Murphy girl that no man ever looked at twice, had also adored – and spoiled – the little sister who looked on her as the only mother she had ever known, and now she adored that little sister’s children. Especially Lucy. There was no getting away from it, Lucy’s pale little face and wistful blue eyes had wound their way firmly into Maeve’s susceptible heart. Perhaps, Maeve thought, tiptoeing into Evie’s bedroom and over to the stout wooden cradle in which young Murphys had slumbered for generations, perhaps I’m the sort of person who needs to be needed even more than I need to be loved. Or perhaps someone who needs you automatically loves you. Whatever the reason, though, I couldn’t have borne it if Evie had taken Lucy.

She leaned over the cot. Lucy was awake, her thumb wedged into her small mouth, her eyes fixed on the ceiling above her head. She was bald but for a quiff of lint-white hair and she had lately developed a rash around her mouth and chin, but to Maeve she was the most beautiful thing on this earth. She smiled at the baby, a smile full of all the stored up, imprisoned love in her heart and the baby smiled back, her eyes lighting up with pleasure, her mouth curving into that most trustful of expressions, a beam of pure, unselfish love.

‘Oh, Lucy, you’re going to be my little girl until your mammy comes home,’ Maeve whispered, picking the child out of the cot and cuddling her against her breast. ‘No man’ll ever want me – why should they, indeed? – but you do don’t you, me darlin’? You’ll want your Maeve for – oh, for years and years and years!’

And the baby sighed and nuzzled against her, seeming to listen when Maeve told her that it was not time for a feed yet, not for a couple of hours at least, but that there was plenty of time for a cuddle.

She climbed carefully into Evie’s little bed with the child still held against her breast, and presently she had the satisfaction of seeing Lucy’s lids droop, of hearing her breathing become slow and regular.

She’s always been dear to me, but she’s dearer than ever now, because she’s as good as me own, Maeve thought, letting her cheek rest gently against the baby’s silky hair. Oh Evie, Evie, I’ll miss you sore every day that I live . . . but I’ll be a good mammy to your little one. You can trust old Maeve to take as much care of her as you would yourself. No, I’ll take more care of her, she added, letting her lips caress the child’s soft crown. She’ll be my little princess for she’s all I’ve got, until you come home and take her from me. And then there’ll be the four of us, in your grand big house, all happy as – as queens!

And on the thought, Maeve Murphy slid into dreams and slept soundly, with Lucy in her arms, until the new day dawned.

There was no waiting room at the small station in the town, so Evie sat on a wooden bench in a sheltered corner and watched the stars pale in the sky and breast-fed a sleepy but compliant Linnet. She had weaned Lucy off the breast but had continued to feed Linnet, though secretly, knowing that if Maeve knew she would put two-and-two together and make four. Because Evie’s plan, to leave the farm and her family far behind her and seek fame and fortune in the big city, had been in her head for two long years. She would have gone before had it not been for Jan.

Jan was the son of a neighbouring farmer, a dark, handsome young man in his early twenties, much sought after by local girls. But he had ignored them all until he came across Evie one bright April day, with her hands tangled in the mane of the new colt their father had bought from Killarney market, being pulled off her feet.

He had rescued her, talked to her – kissed her. Evie, white and gold, sixteen years old, on the threshold of womanhood, had needed little persuading to go with him into the nearby haybarn, where they had fallen on each other like love-starved animals and conceived the twins.

‘I’ll marry you,’ he said when she told him she was going to have a baby, but Evie had shaken her head, feeling the bars of the cage close round her on the words. She had enjoyed making love, feeling his strong arms round her, she regretted that she would have to forgo it, once her child was born. But she wanted more freedom, a life of her own, fame and fortune, and she would not get any of those things once Jan had roped and tied her to his smallholding. Not even the pleasure of making love in a soft bed every night could make up for the loss of her dreams.

The baby finished, burped, was returned to her place in the sling, and very soon afterwards the train came chuffing lazily into the station. I’ve done all right for myself so far, Evie thought as she climbed into the carriage of the small train which would take her right across Ireland to the magic city of Dublin. She had managed to let everyone assume that the Englishman had been her lover, so that Jan had not lost face over the affair. And there was no ill-feeling between herself and Maeve, for if she had succeeded in her attempt to run away without a word to anyone, leaving Lucy behind, Maeve might well have felt some justifiable annoyance. As it was, Evie had got just what she wanted – escape from the farm – and had remained on good terms with her sister.

The train, which had waited for several moments in the station while goods and a few passengers were put aboard, sounded its whistle, but mutedly because of the early hour, and pulled out of the station. Evie settled herself comfortably in her window seat and looked down at her sleeping child. Dear little, good little Linnet, she would be no trouble, Evie was bound to find someone who wanted to look after her during the day while she sought her fortune. And the child was company, in an odd sort of way. I won’t feel lonely whilst I’ve got Linnet, Evie thought contentedly, letting her gaze wander over the rich green of Ireland as the train chugged along. She was sure Linnet would be beautiful and would have a lovely singing voice, so perhaps they could do an act together when the child was a little older. Evie sat back in her seat and dreamed out of the window, and went back in her mind over what had happened at Ivy Farm that morning.

It was very good of Maeve to let me take the housekeeping money out of the pewter teapot, she reminded herself, because it means I shall be able to live quite well for the first month or so. And I’m sure Daddy won’t give Maeve any cash to replace what I’ve taken until the month’s end because he’s tight-fisted and mean. A shame it is that he doesn’t like me any more just because I fell for the twins, but when he sees I’m gone he’ll probably be nicer to the others. He might even be nicer to Maeve, because although she’s not pretty, she works harder than most.

The train chugged on and a plume of smoke swept by the window. There was grit on the surfaces and, although the sun was well up now bathing the countryside in gold, it was chilly in the half-empty carriage. A woman with two children, who had got aboard at Killarney, got out a bag of sandwiches and some apples. The woman offered Evie a ham sandwich and Evie accepted graciously and when it was eaten, leaned her head on the window and snoozed.

The children told each other stores in loud voices but the sound scarcely entered Evie’s dreams, certainly did not wake her. With the baby snug against her breast, Evie slumbered on.

‘She’ll come back, Da, when she discovers that life isn’t as easy as she thinks,’ Maeve said next morning, expertly frying bacon and eggs in the big black pan whilst her father and the farmhands, Tom Flanagan and his son Kellach, sat with their big mugs of dark tea at the breakfast table. ‘Inside six months she’ll be back home, I’m sure.’

‘She’ll not be welcome here,’ Padraig said at once. ‘A wicked girl she is, and a bad example to her sisters. She’s gone, now she can stay away.’

Clodagh, cutting bread at one end of the table, smiled at her sister, Éanna, who was making the bread into sandwiches and packing them into two lunch-tins. Both girls were tall, buxom and blonde. Clodagh taught at the local school and Éanna worked behind the counter in the town’s only drapery shop, so they usually walked into town together, though Clodagh finished at four while Éanna was not finished until six or later. They were good friends, only a year separating them in age, and Maeve used to wonder whether the twins would be like them when they were older, for the twins, too, were fair-haired.

‘If little Evie does come home she can come to my place, alanna, when Niall and I are wed,’ Clodagh said, cutting a thick slice and handing it to Maeve for frying. ‘Will she come back for the weddin’, I wonder? She could be me attendant and welcome.’

‘She’ll not be welcome here,’ Padraig repeated obstinately. ‘At your own house, Clodagh, I shall have no say, but I won’t have her here.’

‘That’s all right, Father,’ Clodagh said peaceably. She smiled across at Éanna and her sister smiled back. They were placid, pleasant girls, much sought after by the young men of Cahersiveen. Whilst neither was strictly beautiful, as Evie was, the two girls nearest to Maeve in age were acknowledged to be pretty and sweet-natured, and both were engaged to be married to neighbouring farmers’ sons.

‘If she writes with her address, you must tell her to come back for our weddings, Maeve,’ Éanna said comfortably. ‘Sure and I wouldn’t have little Evie missed out for the world.’

Padraig ground his teeth and Tom, drinking tea, looked from one girl to the other over the top of his mug and grinned.

‘Sure an’ you’ll never get the better of a woman, Paddy,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘Your Evie’ll be back home in a twelvemonth, mark me words.’

Kellach was a big, quiet young man of about Maeve’s age. He had admired her once, walking her home from school, stopping to chat with her as she worked around the house, but her steadfast refusal to go out with him whilst her sisters needed her had resulted in his looking elsewhere and now it was commonly believed that he had an understanding with a widow who lived six miles away, on the other side of the town. She was ten years older than Kellach if she was a day, but she had a decent farm and at thirty-eight she probably still needed a man. Maeve knew one day she would be sorry that she had not snapped Kellach up whilst she had the chance, but that day was not yet. First it was Clodagh and Éanna who needed her, then Nora and Evie; now she had Lucy to think of. There was simply no time in her busy life to worry about men.

Maeve dished up the breakfasts and watched her father eating with the speed he always showed. He shovelled the food in, packing his mouth with bacon until the grease ran down his chin, wiping spilt yolk with a slice of bread, drinking his tea in big gulps between mouthfuls. The pity of it was, she reflected, that though he was a good farmer, none better, he was always rushing, hurrying to get on. So he seldom praised her meals, though perhaps as the bacon came from the pigs he reared, the eggs from the poultry strutting in the yard outside, even the bread from their own wheat, he might think that to say that the food was good was a form of self-appreciation.

It would have been nice to have been appreciated by her father, but to Padraig Murphy, Maeve was simply a work-horse. A good one, yes, but not valued as she ought to be. It isn’t really fair, because if I were pretty then I’d marry and leave and he wouldn’t like that, Maeve told herself, putting a piece of fried bread and an egg onto her own plate and taking it to her place at the end of the table. Her father was ashamed of her because she had no man sniffing after her, yet he resented the men who came calling after Clodagh, Éanna and Nora, was continually critical of them and obviously more than a little jealous.

‘More tea, Maeve.’

She had only just sat down; Kellach made a half-move, but Clodagh was quicker. She took her father’s mug without a word, refilled it, put it down before him. Once again, Padraig showed by neither word nor gesture that he had been given the tea he had demanded.

‘Get the honey.’

This time Maeve reached the jar down from the dresser without having to move from her chair and stood it with a crack on the table before him. He reached for it, dug his knife into the smooth, amber sweetness, spread it thickly on a round of buttered bread.

‘Lovely manners, Daddy,’ Nora said. She had come into the kitchen softly and reached round her sister for the teapot. ‘Don’t worry, Maeve, I’m not eating breakfast this morning, I’ll just have me a nice, hot cup of tea. Oh, and some bread and honey because I mustn’t be fainting behind the till.’

Nora worked in the town’s only dining rooms and was already clad in her working uniform – a black dress with white collar and cuffs, a rustling white apron and neat low-heeled black shoes. She was golden-haired, like three of her four sisters, and was currently walking out with the schoolmaster, a pleasant, scholarly man in his forties who had never been married and who probably never would be, unless Nora nudged him a little.

Padraig looked up and gave Nora a half-grin; she was his favourite daughter, now that Evie had fallen from favour with such a crash. I was never a favourite, nor ever will be, Maeve thought sadly, though I’m the only one that works at home, slaving to keep the place halfway decent. Still, I’ve no charm, no pretty ways. How can I expect to be anyone’s favourite?

But then she remembered Lucy, sleeping in the cradle upstairs, and a smile curved her lips. Her sisters were lovely and beloved, but she – she had a baby who was as good as her own. She would see that Lucy got the best of everything and when Evie came back, or grew famous, there would be the four of them, closer than friends, staying together for the rest of their lives.

Me Da can be as grumpy as he pleases, and Kellach can court his old widow and go and live in her rich little farm, she told herself, eating her fried bread. The girls can marry their young men and Nora can flirt with the schoolmaster and get prettier and more sought-after by the day together. But what does it matter to us Murphy girls, Maeve and Evie, Lucy and Linnet? We’ll manage fine so we shall, Maeve told herself blissfully. And did not even hear her father’s voice as it ordered her to cut more bread and look lively, woman, we men have got work to do even if you haven’t!

Chapter Two

1924

‘Hey, watch out, watch out! Gerrout me wa-a-a-ay!’

Linnet, who had been walking carefully down the snowy pavement on Havelock Street, clutching her messages and thinking wistfully of the hot cup of tea which would await her on her return home, was unwise enough to turn round to see who was shouting, which was how she came to find herself travelling, very fast, along the pavement with a pair of arms clutching her and her bum slithering at incredible speed along the steeply sloping snow-covered flagstones.

The unexpected trip finished with equal suddenness. One moment she and her assailant and a small tin tea-tray were hurtling down Havelock Street, the next they had burst into Netherfield Road and were trying to untangle themselves from a lamp-post whilst a small boy sat on the pavement howling and clutching his knees and a very fat woman belaboured them indiscriminately with a large umbrella.

‘Bleedin’ gipsies!’ the woman shouted, swishing the umbrella in a half-circle and catching Linnet and the would-be tobogganer around their unprotected shoulders. ‘’Ow dare youse ruffians come into a decent neighbourhood like this, a-playin’ your wicked games! As if it ain’t bad enough living ‘alfway up Havelock Street, which is a rare danger in this sorta weather, without bein’ knocked off our feet by kids on bleedin’ tea-trays!’

‘Sorry, missus,’ the boy said, trying to get away from the flailing umbrella. ‘We din’t do it on purpose, it were an accident, we’re hurt, too, me and the little gal, we din’t mean to . . . ouch!’

Linnet struggled to her feet as the woman gave her companion one last, valedictory thump with the umbrella and began to cluck over her small son, leading him up the steep street which she and her companion had just left. Bleakly, Linnet surveyed her string bag and its mangled contents. She had come all this way because Mammy had told her to fetch the new frock Miss Spelman, the dressmaker, had just completed for her, and now look at it! The brown paper was torn and beneath it, the tissue which Miss Spelman had carefully wrapped around it was torn, too, and wet. And she had visited Mammy’s favourite confectionery shop first because the owner had promised to obtain for them some rather special crystallised fruit – Mammy loved crystallised fruit – and now the pretty white package tied with pink ribbon was looking decidedly the worse for wear.

‘Oh me darling, whatever has happened to my parcels?’ Mammy would say, examining the dirty wrapping paper. ‘Did you fall over now in all this miserable snow and slush? I scarcely know how to bear the weather we’ve been having lately, I’m truly tempted to take my friend up on his invitation and go to Paris in the spring, just to get away from Liverpool snow and fogs.’

Mammy never shouted when it wasn’t your fault, that was one good thing. And they were really flush at the moment because Mammy had a good part in the pantomime and her latest admirer, Mr Jackie Osborne, liked to buy special treats and to take Mammy out to dinner after the show. So perhaps it wasn’t terribly serious that the messages had got a little snow and slush on them – by the time she got home the wrapping paper would, in all probability, have dried out and be as good as ever.

So there was no point in standing here wondering what Mammy would say. The fat woman and her son were labouring up Havelock Street now, the woman heaving herself along by clutching at the house-walls whilst the child’s howls had turned to hiccups, but the boy with the tea-tray stood there still, rubbing a scarlet ear and scowling after his attacker.

‘Well, as if I meant to do it!’ he muttered crossly, turning to Linnet.