Coming Home to the Four Streets
Nadine Dorries
Also by Nadine Dorries
The Tarabeg Series
Shadows in Heaven
Mary Kate
The Velvet Ribbon
The Lovely Lane Series
The Angels of Lovely Lane
The Children of Lovely Lane
The Mothers of Lovely Lane
Christmas Angels
Snow Angels
The Four Streets Series
The Four Streets
Hide Her Name
The Ballymara Road
Coming Home to the Four Streets
Standalone novels
Ruby Flynn
Short stories
Run to Him
A Girl Called Eilinora
An Angel Sings
COMING HOME TO THE FOUR STREETS
Nadine Dorries
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2021 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Nadine Dorries, 2021
The moral right of Nadine Dorries to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781838939069
ISBN (XTPB): 9781800241961
ISBN (E): 9781838939052
Head of Zeus Ltd
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Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
About the author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Chapter One
Liverpool
There was little need for Eric to guide his faithful cob, Daisy Bell, along his milk round. The early morning mist lay close to the cobbles of the Dock Road and the four streets but the mare knew each step of the route by heart and had never wrong-hoofed him as he dropped the reins to turn the pages of the Daily Post which, by arrangement, he removed from a bundle piled up on the pavement outside the tobacconist and replaced with two bottles of silver top.
‘Morning, Eric. Red sky last night so that sun is going to get his hat on at last, eh,’ called out a scurrying figure, bent forward towards the Mersey and wreathed in blue cigarette smoke. He gave Eric the thumbs up as he passed, on his way towards the dockers’ steps. Eric lifted his white oilskin cap in greeting and, feeling the fresh air on his head despite his thatch of thick chestnut brown hair, replaced it quickly. He rubbed his chin and wondered should he give the float a coat of fresh paint when he returned to the dairy.
He’s right, he thought. The weather must change soon. I can’t leave the painting for much longer because the Dock Queen Carnival is only weeks away. Eric, Daisy Bell and the float played a central role on the day of the carnival. Cleared of wooden crates and bottles, bedecked in May flowers, garlands and with the large throne-shaped chair from Sister Evangelista’s office draped in crimson velvet and secured by hidden ropes, they would transport the queen and her retinue along the Dock Road and around the four streets, beginning on the front yard of the Anchor public house where everyone was offered a free tot of rum by Bill and Babs.
This guaranteed attendance for some of the day by the men, reluctant fathers and work-worn dockers trying their hardest to elicit a second tot from Babs, no friend to the equally reluctant and work-worn mothers who resented the time she spent serving their husbands. The rum was freely dispensed but, unknown to either Father Anthony or Sister Evangelista, it was not provided out of generosity nor was it even the property of the Anchor. No, it had ‘fallen off the back of a tramp ship’, close to the dockers’ steps and been stored in the Dohertys’ outhouse, in waiting for the event of the summer.
The procession would be led by Father Anthony at the front, and brought up by the Union of Catholic Mothers at the rear, pushing prams. Children would be running and laughing alongside all the way to the finish in the large priory garden where, for one day only, the children were allowed to play and run free. Games were organised by Miss Devlin, the only teacher who was not a nun at the school, whilst the nuns and the women of the four streets served teas and home-made cakes in an old canvas army hospital tent which smelt of gunsmoke, mud and despair. The highlight of the afternoon was the blessing of the dock queen and the awarding of the prizes – threepenny bits – by Sister Evangelista. Goldfish were won, moles whacked and bells rang out as the first child crossed the finishing line at the end of each race. The carnival could be won or lost on the state of the weather, which became the focus of attention for weeks before.
Eric looked up to the sky. The rain had been relentless, but this morning there was definitely a lightness in the mist. He made the decision that he would begin painting as soon as he arrived back at the dairy and would take the week to paint a panel a day. He delivered every morning, even on Sunday, his wife, Gladys, having frightened away every young boy Eric had taken on as an apprentice. Even those from homes desperate for the money had never lasted longer than a week, terrified by her temper or frozen in her piercing glare.
Daisy Bell turned left and the Anchor loomed before them. ‘Well done, girl,’ Eric said, and her ears flicked forward as she recognised the affection in his voice. The public house was their next-to-last call on the Dock Road; the round ended at the top of the dockers’ steps which led down to the Mersey and delivered to every house and business on the way. Eric enjoyed the meticulous order of the round which played well to his military training. Every day was the same. Same orders, same numbers of bottles out and empties back in and he was about to deliver a crate of six steri to the Anchor. There was no sign of the cellar man but Eric could tell by the bottles stacked outside the back door that the previous evening had been a lock-in.
As the float trundled across the cobbled yard, Babs threw open the door and greeted them with a wave. Her usual beehive hair style was tied up in a headscarf which resembled a turban, and the remnants of the previous night’s eye make-up was smeared under her eyes.
‘Busy night was it, Babs?’ Eric asked as he inclined his head towards the bottles.
‘The usual, Eric. You know what they’re like around here. Complain they’ve got no money and just as soon as they have a quid in their pockets, they spend i
t in here and either throw it up down our jacksies or piss it up the wall on the way home. Don’t ever ask me why I’m still married. If I had just spent a week in this place first, it would have been enough to put me off for life. Men!’
Eric shook his head; he often thought people must wonder why he was married, given that everyone knew and avoided his wife Gladys. ‘It’s a mystery to me, Babs. I don’t know where they get the money from. Only half of the men in the pen were taken on every morning last week, so I’ve heard.’
She looked instantly guilty. ‘Well, don’t blame me, Eric, it’s not our fault. I mean, we can’t refuse to serve them, can we? I had to push Paddy Nolan out of the door meself last night. Cadged a bob off Ena, he did, because he said there was no money for the leccy at home and Peggy and the kids were in the pitch black, then moved into the back bar and spent it on Guinness as soon as Ena started singing “Danny Boy”. It’s Peggy and the kids I feel sorry for, but what are we supposed to do, close the bleeding place down?’ Without waiting for an answer, she continued, ‘And if we did, the buggers would only go and spend it down at the Sylvestrian and put their money over the bar there. At least in my pub it’s not as far to stagger home and there’s no prossies on the street to take whatever the soft buggers have left.’ Babs took a long pull on her cigarette and flicked the ash out of the door.
Now it was Eric’s turn to feel guilty. ‘I’m sorry, Babs, I didn’t mean to suggest…’ he began.
‘Oh Eric, no love, no, I know you didn’t. It’s just harder now that Tommy Doherty isn’t around. If he thought anyone was drinking too much and the kids were going without, he’d march them back home. I’ve seen him many a time taking what was left of the pay packet from some soft sod and then their Maura would take it round to the wife the next morning. It’s not the same since him and Maura left; the four streets are going to pot without them.’
Eric shook his head in dismay and changed the subject. ‘I was thinking of painting the float for the Dock Queen Carnival. Is it starting off on your front yard as usual?’
Babs’s face lit up. ‘It is. I went to the first meeting with Sister at the convent – and honest to God, the whole time I was there I was waiting for lightning to strike, or the doors to slam shut and lock me in.’ Babs, who lived in a warm public house with a large fire, had no need of a welcome dry hour in mass, three times a day for seven months of the year and was not a regular attender, laughed. ‘Sister said, “So, ladies, who is organising the bunting?” Well, not one bugger answered. It was Maura did all that before she left, so I nudged Peggy who was sat next to me and said to her, “Peggy, can’t you do that? Didn’t you used to be the one helping Maura before she left?” and she just gawped at me.
‘I tell you, no one was home that night and I don’t know what’s wrong with that woman, apart from the fact that she’s married to Paddy and has seven kids with open mouths hanging around her ankles. Kathleen Deane was on the other side of me and she’s the one half-raising those kids since Maura took off. So Kathleen can’t do it, can she? She’s making the cakes, Maisie’s sewing all the frocks with the little material they have, Shelagh is running around like a blue-arsed fly with half a dozen kids on her hips, trying her best, bless her, and Alice and Deirdre, they’re running just about everything else trying to please Miss Devlin, who never stops with the orders, and Cindy, well, she’s too busy running her salon. And there’s another problem; there hasn’t been a tramp ship in the dock for months. No one’s got nothing.’
Eric felt breathless just listening to Babs. None of it was news to him. The widow, Maggie Trott on Nelson Street, had voiced her concerns to him about the carnival weeks ago. The dock board didn’t pay enough of a weekly wage to feed a large Catholic family and everyone on the four streets enjoyed some luxuries in life courtesy of Captain Conor, whose mother, Ena, lived on Waterloo Street. On a regular basis, Conor’s tramp ship haul was carried up the dockers’ steps in the dead of night and it was his rum, from the Caribbean, which kicked off the carnival to a good start.
‘I mean, where does Sister think the free tot of rum comes from when everyone’s covering your milk float in May flowers? Or the fabric for the frocks, for that matter. They were made of shot silk last year, that Conor brought all the way from China. He sold it to a shop in town and kept a bolt for us, but he hasn’t been home for months. His poor mam thinks he’s drowned, but I said to her, Ena, stop being so dramatic; if he had, his body would have been washed up weeks ago, and we would have heard by now.’
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 down on Scottie Road. Eight more had followed Mary and Malcolm had watched her push the others up and down the street in the pram since she was old enough to reach the handlebars. She was wearing a coat at least three sizes too big for her and her chestnut hair, usually worn in a ponytail, had been tied in rags the previous evening in anticipation of her new job, long and thick, it now bobbed on her shoulders in tight ringlets. Her bright blue eyes were flecked with hazel streaks and appeared large in her thin face. She was not a pretty girl, but there was something about her that caught the eye. A calmness, a depth beyond her years. As she smiled up at him, Malcolm knew Biddy had won.
