A Mother’s Gift: Two Classic Novels. Josephine Cox

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.’

      On seeing the question in his eyes, she quickly assured him, ‘No, she’s not one of Bridget’s girls. Lucy Baker is a stray lamb. She met up with a no-good fella who promised her the world then cleared off to sea, and then she had nowhere to go when her mam and dad split up, so Bridget took her in. Y’see, as I told you … Bridget’s gorra soft heart and likes to help such folks.’

      As he hurried away, she called after him. ‘Hey! There’s summat I forgot to tell you!’

      Edward was not in the mood for listening, however. ‘Silly old fool!’ he muttered, and ignoring her, he walked on.

      Seeing him march away all the quicker, the woman shrugged her fat little shoulders. ‘Don’t listen then,’ she told his back. ‘It won’t matter to me. Anyway, I expect you’ll find out soon enough.’ The thought of him being caught unawares made her smile – until she recalled how he had nearly banged her door down and then stared at her so threateningly. Her hackles were up.

      Shaking her fist after him, she yelled, ‘And don’t come bothering me again, Sonny Jim! I were busy at the wash-tub when you came pounding on my door with your damned questions. It’s no fun washing blankets, but you wouldn’t know about that, would you, eh? Oh no! You men with your damned questions. Go on! Bugger off and don’t come back!’

      When he turned to scowl at her, she slammed shut the door and scampered back to her wash-tub, grumbling as she went. ‘If Lucy Baker gives that fella so much as the time o’ day, she wants her head examining!’ she muttered to herself.

      When Edward Trent reached Bridget’s house, he knocked on the door with the same force that he had used in Kitchener Street. ‘You don’t need to knock.’ The woman who opened the door was in her late twenties, tall and slender, with a shock of dark hair and over-painted features. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here.’ She ushered him inside. ‘It’s down the passage and first left.’

      He went first and she followed at a quickening pace. It wasn’t often the younger men came to visit, and this one was handsome into the bargain, if a bit surly.

      As she came into the room she quietly closed the door behind her. ‘The other girls are out,’ she confided. ‘Mandy’s having her hair done and Sandra’s got a day off. So I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me. I’m Lynette.’

      His frown became a smile. ‘You think I’m a client, is that it?’

      The young woman shrugged. ‘I hope you are,’ she replied. Giving him a knowing wink, she went on in silken tones, ‘You make a nice change. We normally get the older men here – the blokes who don’t get treated right by their own women … at least, that’s what they tell us.’ She chuckled. ‘So, what’s your reason for being here? Wifey kicked you out, has she?’

      Thinking