Eric shook his head in disbelief. Ena was a soft and gentle soul when she was sober. As used as she was to Babs, he could only imagine her reaction.
‘You can’t help some people, Eric. Walked out of the pub, she did and hadn’t even touched her drink – and that’s a first, I’m telling you.’
Eric made the mistake of answering Babs, and could have bitten his tongue off before the words had left his mouth. ‘Well, if there’s no sign of Conor sailing in, could you ask the fellas in here to stop supping slightly earlier than they do and have a bit of a collection?’
‘The only person around here, other than Tommy Doherty, who could empty this place out early, is your Gladys. I don’t suppose you’d want to send her around at ten tonight, would you? I’ve already tried Father Anthony and that didn’t work; I had to get Jerry Deane to half carry him back to the Priory.’
Eric shook his head. The truth was, he was so scared of Gladys himself, he dared not reply, so instead he said, ‘Get yourself inside, Babs, before you catch your death, and I’ll close the door behind you – go on, now.’
He handed her the crate of milk and pulled the door to, the smile disappearing from his face as quickly as it had appeared. To everyone on the four streets, Gladys and her reputation for ferocity was a source of amusement; to Eric, it was his cross to bear. He loaded the crate of empties Babs had given to him onto the wagon and, stepping back up felt the familiar dip as Daisy Bell readjusted her step to accommodate his weight.
‘Walk on,’ he said as he rested the reins on his knee and retrieved his tobacco tin from his pocket; he pulled out a pre-rolled ciggie and lit up before Daisy Bell pulled back out onto the Dock Road. He rolled five ciggies at the dairy every morning; four were for him and one was for Mrs Maggie Trott on Nelson Street, which was where he took himself for a cup of tea each day. He had known and admired Maggie since before the war and their morning cuppa was the highlight of his day.
He had one call-in before he turned and that was at the Seaman’s Stop, a guest house for sailors. Here, Daisy Bell slowed to a halt without any instruction from Eric. He squinted to see who the woman was, standing outside the sailors’ guest house and was surprised to see that it was Biddy, one of the housekeepers from St Angelus Hospital, fishing around in her holdall outside the door. Next to her, looking nervously around was Mary Malone, Deirdre and Eugene’s eldest.
‘Biddy, what are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘I could have given you a lift, for I delivered to your house half an hour ago.’
‘I know you did, but I missed you. I came running out but you were already gone.’ Eric turned his back to her to remove a crate from the float just as the door to the Seaman’s Stop opened. ‘Oh, Malcolm, there you are, I couldn’t find my keys,’ said Biddy.
Malcolm was wearing striped pyjamas and a dressing gown which had not fastened around his middle since before the war. ‘Morning, Eric, Biddy – I wasn’t expecting you,’ said Malcolm. ‘Oh, hello, Mary, what are you doing here?’
‘She’s coming to work for you,’ said Biddy, in a no-nonsense-tolerated tone. ‘She’s seventeen now and Sister said if she had a job to go to, she could leave the convent.’
‘I never said I wanted anyone working for me!’ Malcolm protested. ‘And besides, I thought Mary was taking the veil.’
Eric watched with some amusement as more words of objection formed in Malcolm’s mind, but he was no match for Biddy.
‘She went to work for Sister in the kitchens when she left school, but they’ve given up trying to make a nun out of her. Sister was hoping Mary would take a liking to the life of a postulant and you know Deirdre was always in competition with Maura and that’s the only reason this poor girl was sent to work in the convent in the first place. Now that Maura’s gone, Deirdre has no objection to Mary taking a job that brings in money, so the Lord’s loss is our gain. The veil’s not for everyone, is it, Mary?’
Mary shook her head, obediently, her expression solemn. As far as she was concerned, Biddy removing her from the convent to work at the Seaman’s Stop had been her own salvation, a miracle indeed. Malcolm reached out to take the crate from Eric.
‘You need to get this place shipshape and Bristol fashion and I can’t keep helping the way I do. I’ve got my own job up at the hospital,’ Biddy went on.
Malcolm looked offended. ‘Biddy, I’ve managed this establishment on my own since 1945.’
Biddy was having none of it. ‘Malcolm, when was the last time you mopped under the beds? And stop making fish faces at me – you can’t answer me because you can’t remember. Time for this place to have a good spring clean and Mary has been cleaning since she could walk.’ Malcolm’s mouth opened and closed, again. ‘She has two freshly laundered pinnies with her and, if she’s a good worker, on Friday night, you will need to put fifteen shillings in her hand.’
Mary blinked and smiled up at Malcolm, who was defeated. It wasn’t Mary, Malcolm objected to. He had known her since she was born, the first to lie in the second-hand pram Eugene had bought
