The Seven Streets of Liverpool Read Free Page A

Brenda woman hadn’t brought the scarf earlier; she could have put that by the bed with the other things.
    Whoever was in the box room coughed again. Freda wanted to throw open the door and order him to leave, but was worried what state he might be in. She didn’t want to end up seeing things she’d sooner not. After some urgent consideration, she decided to hammer on the door and shout at him to sod off, but before she could move, the door opened and he came out.
    ‘Good morning,’ he said politely when he saw her hovering on the stairs.
    ‘Good morning,’ Freda stammered. He was nothing like the seedy individuals her mother used to bring home. He was young – about twenty-five – and wore thick working trousers, a shirt without a collar, and only socks on his feet; clearly he was not yet fully dressed. But unlike those other men, he didn’t smell of alcohol or anything else disgusting.
    ‘If I could just have some warm water for a shave, then I’ll be on my way,’ he said, smiling.
    ‘Do you want to do it in the kitchen?’ Freda asked, surprising herself. She wasn’t usually so courteous or helpful. But his smile was really nice – charming was the word.
    ‘Well, I’d make less mess than in here. Thank you. I’ll just get my stuff.
    She returned downstairs and he followed a minute later. ‘Would you like some tea?’ she enquired, surprising herself again.
    ‘Thank you. You’re being very kind.’ Another smile.
    She pulled out a chair and indicated for him to sit at the table, thankful that nowadays the room had curtains at the windows and the furniture wasn’t falling to bits. Then she fetched the teapot along with two cups and saucers. The crockery was cheap, but there wasn’t a single crack in anything. There’d been a time when the Tuttys had drunk out of tins.
    ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,’ he said. ‘Or has your mother told you?’
    ‘She’s still asleep.’ He had an accent, something northern, though she couldn’t tell from exactly where.
    ‘We met at Midnight Mass. I was expecting to stay with a friend who lives by the church, but he wasn’t home. I should’ve gone straight into town, there’s a seamen’s hostel there, but I wasn’t feeling so good, if the truth be known. I just had to get in out of the cold. By the time Mass was over, the trams had stopped running. Your mother asked if I was all right and offered me a bed for the night when I told her how I felt. She’s very kind, your mother.’ The smile again. ‘My name’s Tom Chance, by the way.’
    ‘I’m Freda Tutty.’ Gosh, this was civilised, just like people behaved in books. ‘So you’ll be off to the hostel once you’ve had a shave, then?’
    ‘Straight away,’ he promised.
    Freda had no idea what came over her. ‘Would you like to stay for your Christmas dinner?’ she offered. ‘We’ve got chicken.’

    Sheila Reilly was to be disappointed if she expected her dad to arrive early and help with the children. At that moment, Jack Doyle was standing with his big feet planted in the soil of his other daughter’s garden in Melling, having ridden over there on his bike as soon as there was a hint of daylight. He was a man who’d lived all his life in a house without a garden, and it was like a gift from heaven to find himself in charge of half an acre of land, most particularly in wartime, when food was rationed and he could grow stuff for his friends and family. Right now, he actually felt a thrill when he bent to cut the stem of a Brussels sprout plant and carried it into the cottage where his daughter was washing dishes.
    ‘Look at that,’ he said proudly, laying it on the draining board. ‘Must be at least fifteen sprouts on it – look like little green roses, don’t they?’
    ‘I suppose they do, Dad,’ Eileen conceded.
    ‘Lovely and firm.’ Jack pressed a couple of the sprouts between finger and thumb, then burst out laughing. ‘I’ve done a lot of things in me life –