discuss it this morning. Rita was getting through the customers in record time. She had been serving them so long she knew by heart what they wanted, which was just as well with Madam Kennedy too busy gawping out of the window to help her.
The men were all racing to get into the queue for work on the dock, situated at the bottom of Empire Street. There were always more men than there was work for them. Like cattle, they would be wedged into the shed-like building, known as the Pen, hoping to be hired for the day. If they were not lucky they would be back in the afternoon to go through the process all over again.
Empire Street’s three-up, three-down terraced houses were the last in a long line of streets leading down to the dock road. The air smelled of soot even in summer, mingled with the odours of imported Canadian lumber from the nearby dock and timber yards, petroleum products, heavy horses, and foodstuffs from countries all over the globe. The River Mersey was the gateway to the world. From the shop Rita could hear the derricks and cranes that swung over ships and the heads of men who toiled for a pittance, loading and unloading the vessels of every shape and size.
As she worked she could hear the sounds of ships coming in and going out again, of tugs blowing on the river, while disinterested gulls screamed disdainfully overhead, swooping for any bits of food they could get. The sound Rita loved best of all was the clip-clop of hoofs on cobbles as huge, heavily laden carts were pulled by powerful horses over the uneven setts between the castellated walls along the dock road. Pop was a carter and this was the sound she had grown up listening out for.
Rita, rushed off her feet with trying to get everybody served and out of the shop as quickly as possible, could see that her mother-in-law was doing nothing to help, and nor was she looking after her children. The thought of her children now tore at Rita’s heart.
If war was imminent, and the children were to be evacuated, away from their mother for the first time, should she not be spending every possible precious moment with them?
‘Next!’ she called, not raising her head, already folding the morning paper while reaching for Old Holborn tobacco.
‘D’ya think Chamberlain has saved the day?’ Pop said, hurrying into the shop.
‘I’ll tell you what, Pop,’ said one of the dockers. ‘I would not trust that Hitler any more than I’d trust my missus to open me wage packet.’
‘Put that on my slate, girl,’ Pop said, picking up the Daily Post as he hurried towards the shop door. Rita’s eyes rolled to the cracked white ceiling, from which hung naked electric light bulbs on twisted cables, when she heard her father’s ready laughter dissolving into the warm summer air as he hurried out to his team of two huge Clydesdale horses waiting patiently outside.
‘You haven’t got a slate!’ Rita called to his disappearing back, knowing her mother would have an apoplectic fit if she ever thought her husband was getting credit from her nemesis, Mrs Kennedy.
‘Good luck in the Pen, love, hope you get a start today …’ Rita said as the fingers of the clock stole around to five to seven. She watched the blue-grey cloud of tobacco smoke rise from the departing dockworkers like steam from restless horses as the air resonated with the beat of steel toe-capped boots. Preparations for war, a subject never far from the lips of every hard-working customer lately, were all around them now, with brick shelters built in the middle of streets. Gladstone Dock was a base for transatlantic escort ships and minesweepers, which were now gathering, and Rita heard men talking of an anti-U-boat fleet based here, too.
Whatever would become of them all? Few families around here harboured romantic ideas of the sea, surviving unquestioningly by their wits. They were resilient because they had to be. Rita was proud to be among these people, with large, loving, exuberant families, with ties that were strong. They could rely on good neighbours and sometimes the Church. Being tough was not only a way of life but also an obligation. To care for their neighbours came as naturally as breathing. She knew instinctively how important this would be if war came.
‘It says here Mr Chamberlain’s gone to America today,’ a man waiting his turn said.
‘Good on him,’ said the impatient docker ahead of him. ‘D’you think ’e’ll bring a few jobs back for us?’
‘Good morning, Rita.’ Jack Callaghan, head and shoulders taller than the last man to leave the shop, smiled at Rita as he neared the counter. Jack did not have to stand in line in the Pen like the others. His time in Belfast meant that as a shipwright he was highly qualified and his job was full time.
‘Morning, Jack. Tell your Kitty I’m ready to slice the ham when she wants to bring it over.’ Rita was determined that she would remain in control of herself around Jack. It was time she grew up and stopped dwelling on the past. Her life was with Charlie now.
‘Will do, Rita,’ Jack smiled. He knew that Rita had a new life now and despite Charlie being a wrong ’un – Jack was no stool pigeon, but he would love to tell Rita the things he had heard about Charlie Kennedy … If Kennedy ever hurt her, Jack thought, as he picked up his usual packet of Woodbines with his morning paper, he would hunt him down like the cheating dog he was.
‘Can I get you anything else, Jack?’ Rita’s hand brushed his as she gave him change. Jack smiled and, looking into her eyes, he shook his head. It was nothing, Rita thought. She had touched many gnarled and calloused hands this morning. However, none of them left the tingling fingertip sensation that Jack Callaghan’s did.
‘Our Frank’s home, Jack!’ Dolly called as she passed the shop doorway. ‘I’m just on my way to the butcher’s to get some nice steaks. Oh, I’m so glad he made it home in time for the wedding.’
‘Glad to hear it, too,’ said Jack. ‘Tell him I’ll be over at dinnertime after my shift.’
Dolly nodded. Frank and Jack had been lifelong friends so she ventured into the shop and said in a low whisper, ‘He told us last night he could be called back to sea at any time. I’m beside myself with worry …’
‘He’ll be fine, Dolly,’ said Jack as he walked towards the shop door. ‘Only the good die young.’
‘Oh, go on,’ cried Dolly theatrically. ‘You’ll be worrying the guts out of me.’
Rita knew her mam was thrilled to have her sons home together but also worried at what was ahead of them, and Rita could only imagine what she was going through.
Jack laughed and said in an upbeat voice that made them feel a bit better, ‘Tell the boys I’ll be in the Sailor’s Rest after tea. We’ll give Sid a good send-off on his last night of freedom.’
‘Boys, indeed!’ Dolly said, laughing as her attention wandered to Mrs Kennedy, who was leaning on the counter reading a magazine. ‘Does she ever do any work?’
Rita laughed, too, knowing that standing idle was anathema to her mother.
‘Shh, Mam, she’ll hear you.’ Rita straightened the remains of the morning papers.
‘Can I get you anything in the butcher’s?’ Dolly could not let go of the motherly reins completely.
‘We’re having fish, because it’s Friday,’ Rita said pointedly, and her mam gasped with shock. Catholics did not eat meat on a Friday.
‘Oh, Rita, why did you have to go and remind me? My head’s all over the place with this wedding.’ Dolly gave a disappointed sigh. ‘I was looking forward to a nice bit of
