The Boldness of Betty Page 6

  But it wasn’t Margaret and Tony’s fault that they didn’t have proper clothes or enough fuel. Maybe looking away from them wasn’t a good thing. Maybe we all had to face up to how hard life was for lots of people in the city. How hard it could be for all of us, if we had just a bit of bad luck.

  I tried to push that frightening thought out of my head as Ali and I headed up Talbot Street. Ali asked me about the cakes in Lawlor’s, and I said if he wanted to know what they were like, he’d have to come in and buy one, and he laughed and said I was a good saleswoman. In fact, we were engrossed in conversation (that’s another good phrase, isn’t it?) until we said goodbye in O’Connell Street, at the corner of the GPO. Officially O’Connell Street is called Sackville Street, but we all call it O’Connell Street after the great politician whose statue stands at the Liffey end.

  It was a hasty goodbye, because just as we were crossing the street I looked over at the clock outside Eason’s and realised it was five minutes later than I thought it was.

  ‘I’d better run,’ I said. ‘They dock our pay if we’re even a minute late.’

  ‘Good luck!’ called Ali, as I rushed down Henry Street. I nearly slipped on some horse dung as I turned down the lane that leads to the back entrance of the shop. Rosie was in the cubby hole, tying her apron on, when I rushed in.

  ‘You’re cutting it fine,’ she said.

  ‘Is Wobbly in yet?’ I whispered. I’ve got used to calling Miss Warby Wobbly. But only when I’m quite sure she’s not around.

  ‘She’s not coming in this morning,’ said Rosie with a grin. ‘It’s your lucky day. Well, it’s all of our lucky day, I suppose.’

  ‘Where is she?’ I said in surprise. Everyone knows that Miss Warby never misses work. Jenny Byrne, who’s been here since 1910, says Wobbly has never been out sick once. Jenny thinks all the diseases are scared of her. I don’t blame them.

  ‘She’s got some meeting with Mr Lawlor about a new flour supplier or something,’ said Rosie. ‘I don’t know exactly, it sounded very boring. Now come on, get that apron on. Them cakes won’t sell themselves!’

  Any hopes that a day without Wobbly would be a day of rest were soon dashed. I don’t know why everyone in Dublin was so mad for cakes all of a sudden, but they clearly were, because we were run off our feet all day, both in the shop and the tearoom.

  I had my break with Rosie, and I was still discreetly chewing a cheese scone left over from yesterday’s café offerings as I walked as quickly as I could without running down the corridor to the glass door. (‘No running on the shop floor!’ as Wobbly is always bellowing at us.) Kitty slipped out for her break just as I reached the counter. I swallowed the last of my scone and looked up to see a tall boy who looked about Ali’s age, gazing at the cakes with a dreamy expression on his face.

  ‘May I help you?’ I said in my talking-to-the-customers manner, hoping I didn’t have any scone crumbs stuck in my teeth.

  ‘Oh!’ said the boy. He had yellow hair and a nice but grand voice. Of course, most of our customers are quite grand. You couldn’t afford the food here if you weren’t. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Um, may I have four of those buns, please?’ He was holding a book under one arm, and with the other he pointed at the pink iced buns which are Da’s favourites. I’ve taken a few leftovers home to him on the days we get extra. Not that I told the strange boy that. We’re not allowed to chat with customers at all; I’d probably get the sack if I started telling one of them about my da’s favourite buns.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ I said politely, and began putting the buns into a paper bag. The boy didn’t stare at me while I was doing it, in the unnerving way that some customers do, like they think you’re going to cheat them by not giving them everything they’ve paid for. He just started reading his book.

  ‘Here you go, sir,’ I said, putting the bag of buns on the counter. ‘That’ll be one and six, please.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, with a friendly smile. He put his book down on the counter and started to rummage around in his jacket pockets. I saw that the book was The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, which Samira and I both read and loved over the last Christmas holidays. ‘Oh lord,’ he said. ‘I was sure I had half a crown here somewhere … Ah, here it is!’

  He triumphantly held up a coin and handed it over. As he did so, his hand knocked the book, sending it sliding off the counter and towards the tray of cakes beneath – in fact, it would have landed right in the middle of them, if I hadn’t caught it in my right hand just as I took his payment in my left.

  ‘Your book, sir,’ I said, handing it over. ‘I’ll get your change now.’

  ‘Well saved.’ The boy sounded quite impressed. ‘My friend Keyes would have killed me if his book had got covered in icing.’

  ‘Miss Warby would kill me if a cake got covered in book,’ I said, without thinking. As soon as I said it, I knew I’d done something stupid. If Old Wobbly had heard me talk to a customer like that, she’d probably have dismissed me on the spot. And what if the boy complained about me being forward!

  But the boy just laughed. He had a nice laugh.

  ‘It’s a jolly good book,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve read it.’

  The boy looked delighted.

  ‘Have you? I think some Holmes and Watson might have improved those cakes. They’re a bit too goopy for my liking. Though don’t let the owner hear you say that.’

  ‘No chance of me letting that happen,’ I said, and then I realised that I was definitely chatting with a customer now – and a male customer at that, which would have made things ten times worse in Wobbly’s eyes - and pulled myself together. It really was a good thing she hadn’t come in this morning. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  He smiled at me. ‘Yes, thank you. Goodbye.’

  I nodded politely at him and he went off. (I didn’t dare even say goodbye in case I found myself doing any more chatting.) The shop suddenly seemed very empty – the rush had died down, which gave Rosie the opportunity to nudge me in the ribs.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she said.

  ‘What was what about?’ I said.

  ‘You and your man,’ said Rosie. ‘Looked like you were having a nice little talk.’

  ‘I just stopped his book going into the cakes,’ I said, pretending I didn’t know what she was getting at. Rosie has a joke about being madly in love with the boy who delivers the flour every week – I don’t think she is really in love with him, even though he really is pretty good-looking, with his curly brown hair and big green eyes – and she’s always trying to find someone she can mock me about. I keep telling her we’re far too young to be interested in boys and she says her oldest sister got married when she was sixteen – which is true. But I have a feeling the only reason her sister got married at sixteen was because she had a baby the week she turned seventeen.

  Obviously I can tell if boys are good-looking or not, I’m not blind. But Ma’s always drummed it into us that there’s time enough to be thinking of boys and romance when we’re older. There’s no use saying that to Rosie, though.

  ‘I bet the next time he comes in he’ll be throwing his book at the buns just so you can save it again,’ she said. ‘His knight in a shining apron!’

  I wasn’t in the mood for her jokes today.

  ‘I doubt we’ll ever see him again,’ I said. And I meant it. After all, we’d never seen him in here before, so why should he come back? And if he did come back, he’d probably end up being served by Rosie or Annie or one of the other girls in the shop. So there’s no point in talking or thinking about him and his book.

  I don’t even know why I’m writing so much about him, because that wasn’t the only interesting thing that happened in the shop today. Wobbly didn’t get back from her trip out to Lucan to meet the new supplier until the day was practically over, and she was too tired to think of things to give out to us about, so there was no trouble on that front. When our shift was finally over, and Rosie and I were taking off our aprons and caps in the cloakroom and getting into our outdoor clothes, I noticed a familiar little red button on the lapel of her coat.

  ‘Is that a union button?’ I said. Because of course my dad is in the union – the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union, the ITGWU for short, though everyone around our way just calls it the union. He has a badge like that on his coat too – a little red hand.

  Rosie nodded. ‘It is.’

  I was confused.

  ‘Was it your da’s?’ I asked, putting on my own coat. I knew Rosie’s da died a few years ago. She lives down near Smithfield with her ma and her sister and her little brother. But Rosie shook her head with a grin.

  ‘It’s mine,’ she said. ‘I went down to Liberty Hall yesterday and joined the union.’

  ‘I thought the union was just for men,’ I said, though as soon as I said that I realised I didn’t actually know whether it was true or not. I’d never really thought about the union. If I had, I’d have taken it for granted that it was just for men and boys. Most things are, after all.

  ‘There’s a women workers’ union too,’ said Rosie, as we headed out the door and down the lane which led back onto Henry Street. ‘It’s connected to the men’s one.’

  ‘Just for women?’ I was amazed. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard of this before. But then, the only people I heard talking about unions were my da and Eddie and Ali. And sure why would they mention a women’s union?

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rosie. ‘Started about two years ago – Josie’s been a member of it from the beginning. I’ve been meaning to join up for ages.’ Josie is Rosie’s older sister. I don’t know why their parents gave them names that (sort of) rhyme. Josie’s full name is Josephine and Rosie’s full name is Rosaleen, so
they always rhyme whether you use their nicknames or not. Josie works in the Jacob’s factory across the river.

  ‘I remember hearing about strikes in her factory,’ I said.

  ‘They’ve had a few strikes now,’ said Rosie. She sounded proud of her sister. ‘And they’re right to walk out, the way the bosses treat them. You know, a few years ago some of the girls were sacked just for getting up a collection at work for another girl who was getting married. Sacked! For trying to give their friend a present! And then a few weeks later all the workers were expected to give money for a wedding present for the Jacobs’ daughter!’

  ‘They weren’t!’ I couldn’t believe such unfairness.

  ‘They certainly were,’ said Rosie. ‘That sort of thing is why Josie joined the union.’ We were out in Henry Street now, where we usually parted ways – I go up towards O’Connell Street and Rosie walks down to Capel Street.

  ‘So they let shop-girls and waitresses join this union too?’ I said.

  Rosie pointed to the badge on her lapel. ‘’Course they do. We’re workers too, aren’t we?’

  ‘I suppose we are,’ I said. I realised that even though I’ve been working at Lawlor’s for nearly two weeks now, a part of me must still think that I’m somehow going to be heading back to school in September. I never thought of myself as a worker because I didn’t want to be one. But maybe I’d better start. It’s not like I have a choice.

  ‘’Course we are,’ said Rosie. ‘Kitty’s in the union too. And a good few girls in the kitchen and the sink room.’

  ‘Kitty?’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘But she’s our supervisor!’

  ‘She’s the senior counter girl,’ said Rosie. ‘And that doesn’t make any difference. She’s got a sense of fair play.’

  ‘I suppose she has,’ I said.

  Kitty made sure everything behind the counter ran as smoothly as possible, but she was never harsh or unreasonable. And, I realised, she never went to Miss Warby when anyone was just a few minutes late.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Rosie, ‘I’d better get home. Ma’s not feeling too well again and someone’s got to keep an eye on Francis.’ Francis is her little brother. He’s not much older than Little Robbie but he sounds like a much nicer child (not that that would be very hard).

  I let Rosie rush home to her ma and Francis and walked slowly up to O’Connell Street. Most of the cafes and some of the shops were closing up now and I found myself noticing the girls and women who were leaving the premises after a long day’s work. They all looked tired and hot and sort of wrung out, as well they might after standing at counters, and climbing ladders to get down boxes, and running around carrying plates and teapots for hours and hours on a stuffy summer’s day, with hardly any breaks, all for just a few shillings a week. I got seven shillings at Lawlor’s, but there are some girls working in big shops for just four or five because their bed and board is included. Girls like Margaret were earning even less. No wonder everyone in the street looked so exhausted.

  I probably look just as tired and pale to them, I thought as I reached O’Connell Street. And then a delivery van driver yelled at me to watch where I was going and I realised I had been so caught up in my (very profound, if you ask me) thoughts that I’d stepped onto the road without looking, and had nearly been run over. So after that I stopped thinking about the state of working women. Thinking profound thoughts isn’t very practical when you’re in the middle of a busy city.

  Chapter Five

  My poor legs are getting a rest today. Rosie says she’ll start slapping me every time I talk about my legs in the future because she thinks I’m just malingering, but she’s not reading this memoir, and she probably never will because she says she never has time for reading, so I can say whatever I like about my legs here. And the reason they’re getting a rest is because it’s Sunday so the shop is closed and I don’t have to go to work. Hurrah! Of course I’ve been using my legs to walk around, but that’s not half as tiring as standing behind a counter all day. Sometimes I lean on the counter and lift one leg up to give it a rest for a while, but Wobbly doesn’t like us leaning on things because she says it looks slovenly.

  When I started writing these memoirs I meant to document my daily life but I’ve just looked back at all the pages I’ve written and I see that I have a tendency to get distracted by things that happened ages ago and then I keep writing about them, instead of concentrating on what is happening right now. So now I will definitely focus properly on what happened today.

  We went to the half past nine o’clock Mass, because Little Robbie spilled a whole pound of flour all over the kitchen floor when he and Lily called over to walk to the church with us for the eight o’clock one. (How did he get the flour? I don’t even think my ma was going to do any baking today.) Then Earnshaw got into the flour and rolled around, and then he ran all over the house scattering flour everywhere, and Ma said that it wasn’t too late to drown that dog in a bucket. By the time all the flour was cleared up it was so late we had to wait until the next Mass.

  I was starving hungry when we got to the church because we can’t have breakfast until after Mass, and as the sound of Latin droned on, the only thing that stopped me falling asleep with boredom was my grumbling tummy. (I really don’t see why the Mass is in Latin; it’s not like anyone around here can understand it.) As soon as we got home, we had our Sunday breakfast treat of fried eggs and a bit of bacon each, and I ate mine as fast as I could, partly because I was so hungry but mostly so I could get out to see Samira as soon as possible. Their da may not go to Mass, but she and Ali and their Auntie Maisie go to the eight o’clock one every week, and they don’t have a Little Robbie or an Earnshaw making a mess to delay them, so I knew she’d be free now.

  Besides, I didn’t want to stay in my own home any longer than I had to. Lily, Robert Hessian and Little Robbie had come back after Mass and were going to stay until after dinner. (Eddie had gone off to meet Mary Lennon, this girl from Bayview Avenue who he’s courting even though he says he isn’t.) So I needed to escape being cried at and puked on by that terrible child. But most of all, I just wanted to see Samira.

  One of the worst things about not going to school anymore is that we don’t get to see each other every day. At least, not properly. I call into the shop on my way to work, but you can’t talk properly when you’ve got Mrs Hennessy standing behind you demanding to buy a tin of condensed milk and half a pound of tea, or Mrs McGrath telling Samira to stop mooning about and serve some customers. In fact, these days the only time we get to have a proper conversation is on Sundays, which luckily is both of our days off. And we’d already made arrangements for this afternoon.

  My plan was to sneak out while my parents and Lily and Robert Hessian were sitting around the kitchen table admiring Little Robbie’s new tooth (all the better to bite me with), but unfortunately I had to go out to the jacks first, and when I was coming back into the house Lily noticed me and had an idea.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  I paused just outside the door of the kitchen, one foot on the stairs up to the hall.

  ‘Samira’s,’ I said. ‘We’re going for a walk down to the seafront.’

  ‘Can you take Little Robbie?’ said Lily. ‘He’s due a nap and you know he won’t sleep unless he’s in his pram.’

  ‘No!’ I couldn’t believe she was asking me to spend my precious free day looking after that monster. But Ma and Da seemed to think this was a perfectly reasonable thing to ask. (I suppose Robert Hessian did too, but I can’t remember if he said anything or not.)

  ‘Sure, he’ll be asleep,’ said Ma. ‘What difference will it make to you and Samira?’

  ‘You’re only going to be gabbing anyway,’ said Da with a grin. ‘You might as well do it pushing a pram.’

  ‘We want to go to Dollymount!’ I cried. ‘He’s not going to stay asleep all that time.’