Madame Barbara. Helen Forrester

born in our street. He’s used to it.’

      ‘He could get unused to it – and he likes fishin’,’ Phyllis replied quite savagely. Her husband was currently serving in a ship on the Australian run. She grinned, and then added, ‘We’d need a farmer to do the garden, ’cos it’s certain your dad wouldn’t! He likes his rest when he’s ashore.’

      They plodded over to the back of a line of houses which abutted the garden at the far end, to look over a dilapidated wooden fence to enquire of a woman pegging out washing on her clothesline whether she knew if the house were to let.

      ‘I don’t know,’ the woman replied. She shook out a nappy, took a peg out of her mouth and pinned the garment on the line. ‘It’s a real sad story, you know. It were bought by a Mr Travis, and made all ready for him and his new bride to move into a couple of years back. You’d nevaire believe it – it’s got a washbasin with hot and cold in every bedroom!’ She turned from the line of baby clothes, and folded her red arms across her chest while she contemplated the enquirers.

      ‘Nice man, he were – businessman from Liverpool, quite old, he was. He’s never lived in it, though. She were killed in a motor smash when they was on their honeymoon in Italy. They always say them Eyeties are mad drivers, don’t they?’

      The woman was highly interested. Why would such an ordinary woman want such a big house? She said she was not sure whether Mr Travis would rent.

      ‘It were up for sale for ages. But who’d want seven bedrooms nowadays? You’d have to have a maid. And it’s too close to the railway track to please them what could afford a servant. They say his wife were an artist, though, and loved painting round here.’

      Phyllis and Barbara did not show any signs of walking on, so she said, ‘You could have a look at it, no doubt. Mrs Jones what has the sweetshop in the village, she’s got a key – looks over the place from time to time for him.’

      The idea began to blossom between mother and daughter. A bed-and-breakfast by the sea, with a huge garden – and a beach for kids just down the road. And waking up every morning to clean air.

      ‘Could I go bathing?’ asked Barbara.

      Phyllis laughed. ‘Every day if you wanted to, when the tide’s in.’

      Barbara began to have visions of splashing amid the waves in a scarlet swimsuit and dazzling all the local lads with her glamour.

      At first, Mrs Jones looked doubtfully at the working-class woman and her daughter who were interested in a house meant for gentry. She did, however, finally agree to show them round it, and afterwards gave them Mr Travis’s address.

      He proved to be a well-to-do businessman living with a manservant in a big flat near Sefton Park.

      Phyllis plucked up courage and, accompanied by a silent, rather scared Barbara, went to see him.

      It was clear to them that he did not care much what happened to the property; in truth, the very thought of it evoked memories he would rather forget.

      At a time when the country was suffering a great depression, a large house with over four acres of unproductive semi-wilderness round it seemed to have little appeal to anyone. Even the council had refused to buy it for public housing, because the land lease was not long enough to suit them.

      Like Mrs Jones, Mr Travis was surprised to be faced with such an eager woman and her daughter, whose accent betrayed that they came from the backstreets of Liverpool. What interest could she have in such a big house, far beyond her means?

      When he understood what they wanted the house for, however, he lost his distant manner. It seemed to him a laudable ambition that they should want to improve their lives; they did, indeed, look very clean and respectable. He relaxed a little, and explained carefully to them that he did not own the land and would not renew the lease of it when it ran out.

      ‘If you buy the house and the lease – which has about forty years to run – you’d be on your own when the lease ends, and your business would be at stake,’ he warned. ‘You’d have to persuade the landlord to renew the lease. Then you might have to pay a lot for the renewal.’

      Their faces fell. ‘We hoped you’d let it,’ they chorused.

      Anyway, forty years before they faced trouble seemed more like a century to two women who lived in a city where lives were often short and nasty.

      ‘I could never buy it,’ Phyllis owned up. ‘But maybe you’d consider renting it?’

      He smiled suddenly at their persistence. He liked this sturdy woman and her pretty daughter. Why not?

      They cheerfully beat down the rent he then suggested, on promise of great care of the property. He was amused, and asked Phyllis if her husband was in agreement with their plans.

      ‘Any debts you run up would be his responsibility,’ he warned. ‘What does he do for a living?’

      Though young Barbara was a bit shocked that her father might be drawn into this wildcat scheme, Phyllis hushed her.

      She said placidly, ‘He’s First Mate on a P&O boat. Takes immigrants to Australia. Nice new ship, it is.’ She sighed. ‘He’s away most of the time. It’ll be months before he docks. Can’t complain, though. He’s never been out of work.’

      When asked, she unhesitantly named the ship. ‘Been on it ever since it were launched,’ she added.

      ‘In the absence of your husband, who did you have in mind to be responsible, then?’

      ‘Well, I’d be responsible. If it’s the rent you’re worried about, I reckon I can manage to pay it.’

      ‘What with?’

      ‘Well, me hubby and me – we got a bit saved, and I can cash it, if I have to. And me allotment from him is paid regular. And Barbara here is in service. Add to that, I wouldn’t have to pay ten shillin’ a week rent in Liverpool, like I do now.’

      In those days, women on their own couldn’t get bank loans or credit; even if they worked, it was always presumed that the employment was transitory or so badly paid that they could not afford to repay.

      As Phyllis looked tensely at the elderly man in front of her, she thought: I’m mad. Why do I want this so badly? And putting up with being made to look so small, just to get it?

      She answered herself: For clean countryside and sea air for Barbie. Maybe, just maybe, I could make enough money to send her back to school for a year longer – give her a better chance than I had – though her dad would think I were crazy if I did.

      For his part, Geoffrey Travis wondered idly whether he cared a damn what happened to this house. He had other properties, and nobody to leave them to when he died. He had, legally, to pay the ground rent of this one until the lease ran out – but the amount was small. Other than that, he had kept the house watertight, and it would be sensible to continue to do so, whoever was in it.

      If it were to be a bed-and-breakfast, it would be in the interests of these women that they keep the house decent.

      He asked for references. After a little consideraton, Phyllis gave the name of the priest at her church, and her father. Mentally enlarging her father’s corner store, she said, ‘Me dad’s a grocer. And he knows about bed-and-breakfasts, he does. He owned one in Blackpool till he saved enough to buy his grocery.’ She paused, to consider what more she could add. Then, inspired, she said with great pride, ‘He’s got a telephone.’

      About the best that can be hoped for, I suppose, Travis decided. He hoped that the priest also had a telephone, so that he could talk to him directly.

      He took Phyllis’s name and address, and promised to give her a decision in a few days’ time.

      Faced with the possible reality of her mad idea, Phyllis asked, ‘Could you ask Mrs Jones to show us round it again, sir?’

      This was the first indication Travis had had that Mrs Jones