Liverpool Annie

by Maureen Lee

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Sagas; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A sweeping Liverpool saga following the fortunes of one woman from the 1940s to the 1990s, by the ever-popular, award-winning author. Annie Harrison has a difficult childhood, and she eventually goes to live in the Grand Hotel with a rich schoolfriend. Marriage follows and when her husband dies, she throws herself into providing for her children. Starting with a market stall, she discovers a talent for designing clothes that develops into a successful business. But there comes a time amid the success when Annie feel she can no longer go on. Then a chance meeting leads to events she has no control over, and at last she finds the happiness that has previously eluded her.

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 564

Sample

Annie stopped running. Her breath was raw within her pounding chest, and her legs felt as if they were about to give way. She’d come to the stretch of sand where Auntie Dot used to bring them in the summer when they were little, and where she and Sylvia came on warm evenings to talk. Now, at half past ten on a bitter March night, Annie found herself drawn towards the dark isolation offered by the litter-strewn beach.

What had she done? What had possessed her to say those terrible things? She wandered, stiff-legged, towards the water. The texture of the sand beneath her feet changed from fine to moist and the heels of her flat school shoes sank into the mushy surface. The horror of what she’d just witnessed couldn’t be true: she’d imagined it, or she’d wake up any minute and find it had been a bad dream, a nightmare.

‘Please God, make it not be true!’ she prayed aloud in a strange, cracked, high-pitched whisper.

Before her, the black, oily waters of the River Mersey glinted, rippling, reflecting the distant lights of Wallasey and New Brighton and a segment of orange moon which appeared from behind a veil of cloud.

Annie stared into the water which lapped busily at her feet, at the black seaweed which wrapped itself around her shoe, to be swept away when the tide rustled forward in a frill of dirty froth to reclaim it as its own. She was fifteen, nearly a woman, yet felt as if, from this night on, her life was over. She knelt on the sand and began to pray, but soon the prayers gave way to recollections: of her mam and dad, her sister Marie, of Sylvia, and of course, Auntie Dot . . .

She searched for her first memory, but could think of nothing in particular. Those early years living with the Gallaghers had been happy, full of fun, despite the fact the war was on. She remembered it was the day Dot threw the cup at the wall that caused things to change. The cup had been a catalyst. Afterwards nothing was ever the same again.

Auntie Dot was still in the same house in Bootle: small and terraced, outwardly the same as the one in Orlando Street where the Harrisons had lived for over ten years, but inside so very different – full of ornaments and pictures, warm with the smell of baking, and the grate piled high with glowing coals. In 1945, Dot put a big picture of Mr Attlee, the new Prime Minister, over the mantelpiece and kept a little candle burning before it, as if he were a saint.

When Annie and her family were there, there was so much furniture you could scarcely move, because stuff from the parlour had been moved out to make room for a double bed for mam and dad. Annie and her sister slept upstairs with Auntie Dot. Then the war ended and Uncle Bert came home and, somewhat unreasonably Annie thought, expected to sleep with his wife. She was indignant when another bed was acquired from a secondhand shop and put in the boxroom for her and Marie. This meant the settee from the parlour had to be placed precariously on its side, and they had to climb over an armchair to get in and out of bed – which was too small, anyway, even for two little girls.

Still, Annie loved the crowded house, swarming with people, though it was irritating to have to stand in a queue for the lavatory at the bottom of the yard, or compete for food with three growing, hungry boys. The boys were older than Annie, having been born before the war, and she thought Dot was sensible not to have more whilst Bert was away, because they were a handful. Not that Marie was much better. Despite being only three, she was as ‘mischievous as a sackful of monkeys’, as Dot put it.

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Annie,’ Dot said frequently. ‘You’re the only one who knows how to behave proper, like. You’d never think you were only four.’ Annie helped make the beds and dry the dishes. Her favourite job was dusting the ornaments on the sideboard: souvenirs from Blackpool and Rhyl and Morecambe, places where Dot and Bert had gone when they were courting.

‘Poor little mite,’ Dot said sometimes, ruffling Annie’s mop of copper curls. ‘What’s to become of you, eh?’

Annie had no idea what she was on about. She didn’t feel the least bit poor, but warm and secure in the shambolic house where, as far as she knew, the Harrisons would stay for ever. In September she would start school, the one the boys went to, and life would be even better. She loved Auntie Dot with all her heart, and Uncle Bert, once she forgave him for taking over the bed. A tall man with a halo of sandy hair, red cheeks and a bushy moustache, he reminded her of a teddy bear, and bought little presents for the children on pay day: sweets or magic painting books or crayons. Bert was an engine driver who worked shifts, and they had to be quiet when he was on nights and slept during the day.

But gradually, Auntie Dot, who laughed a lot and was always in a good mood, began to get bad-tempered. Perhaps it was because she was getting fat, thought Annie, noting the way her auntie’s belly was swelling, getting bigger and bigger by the day. She snapped at the boys and told Annie and Marie to get out of the bloody way, though her bark was worse than her bite. If anyone at the receiving end of her temper got upset, she was instantly and extravagantly remorseful. Once, when Marie began to cry, her auntie cried, too.

‘I’m sorry, luv,’ she sobbed, gathering Marie in her arms. ‘It’s just . . . oh, hell, I dunno, I suppose everything’s getting on top of me.’

It was a blustery rainy day in April when Dot threw the cup. Annie and Marie were in their best frocks, having been to nine o’clock Mass with their aunt and uncle and the boys. The pegs in the hall were full of damp clothes, with a neat row of Wellingtons underneath. After Mass, Uncle Bert had gone to bed, with a stern warning to the boys to keep the noise down. Dot knotted a scarf turbanwise around her ginger hair, pulled a flowered pinny over her head and tied it around her nonexistent waist, making her belly look even bigger. She began to iron on the back room table. As each item was finished, she placed it in a pile, until there were two neat folded heaps of clothes and bedding.

‘Can’t put this lot away till Bert gets up or I can get in the parlour,’ she muttered to herself. Every now and then, she changed the iron for the one left on a low gas ring to re-heat. As the fresh iron was brought in, she spat on it with gusto.

The boys, restless at being kept indoors by the rain, disappeared upstairs. After a while, they began to fight, and there was a series of muffled howls and bumps. Dot went into the hall and hissed. ‘Tommy, Mike, Alan! Shurrup, or ye’ll wake your dad.’

She smiled at the girls, who were squashed together in the other armchair from the parlour. ‘Oh, don’t you look a picture! The royal princesses don’t hold a candle to you pair. What are you drawing? Do your Auntie Dot a nice picture for the kitchen, there’s good girls.’

Their best drawings were pinned to the larder door, but now Annie abandoned hers to watch Dot at work. Her aunt’s movements always fascinated her, they were so quick and efficient. She would have offered to help, but Dot didn’t like anyone under her feet when she was ironing.

The ironing finished, Dot put both irons on the back step to cool and went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, deftly peeling a stack of potatoes and chopping up a cabbage. There was already a pan boiling on the stove, a corner of muslin sticking out under the lid. Annie licked her lips. Suet pudding! She hoped it was syrup, her favourite.

Dot lit the oven and placed a big iron casserole dish of steak and kidney on the middle shelf. To Annie’s surprise, she remained stooping for several seconds, wincing. She grasped the draining board, panting, before lighting another ring on the stove and pouring almost a whole pint of milk into a pan. Then she took a big tin of custard out of the cupboard, mixed the remainder of the milk with two tablespoons of powder, poured the whole lot into the pan and began to stir vigorously, her face creased in a scowl. Making custard was a hazardous business: if you didn’t remove the pan at just the right time, it burned.

Sitting watching, listening to the spoon scraping the side of the pan, the spit of water on the hot stove, the muffled voices of the boys upstairs, Annie, in the warm, comfortable chair pressed close to her sister, felt a sense of perfect happiness. In about an hour – and although an hour seemed an age away, it would pass eventually – Dot would ask her to set the table, then nine plates would be spread on every conceivable surface in the kitchen and the food would be served, with Dot moving bits of potato and spoonsful of steak and kidney from one plate to another, ‘to be fair, like’, as she put it. In the middle of this, Dot would say ‘Tell your dad the dinner’s ready, luv’, and Annie would knock on the parlour door and her dad would emerge and collect two meals, one with only minute portions for mam, and take them back with him. Uncle Bert’s dinner would be kept warm for later.

The boys began shouting and there was a crash, as if they’d knocked something over. Uncle Bert thumped on the floor and yelled, ‘Keep the noise down!’ just as there was a sharp rap on the front door.

Dot groaned. ‘See who that is, Annie.’

Annie trotted to the door. Father Maloney stood outside. He gave Annie a brief nod, and, without waiting for an invitation, pushed past and walked down the hall, straight into the room full of ironing and thick with the smell of cooking dinner – boiling cabbage predominated.

‘Why, Father!’ Dot’s pretty, good-natured face flushed as bright red as her hair with embarrassment. She pulled the turban off and dragged the pinny over her head, dislodging one of her pearl earrings. It fell on the lino-covered floor with a little clatter and, as she rushed forward to greet the priest, she stood on it, ‘I wasn’t expecting you today. Annie, Marie, get up and let Father have the armchair.’

She closed the kitchen door and called the boys. They came down and stood meekly against the wall, hands behind their backs, whilst Dot carried out a quick inspection, straightening their collars and smoothing down the tousled ginger heads they had inherited from their mam and dad. Father Maloney gave them a cursory glance. As soon as his back was turned, Mike pulled a face and Marie stifled a giggle.

‘Who is it?’ Uncle Bert shouted.

‘It’s Father Maloney, Dad,’ Tommy shouted back. Uncle Bert said something incomprehensible and the bed creaked.

The priest didn’t stay long. He asked the children if they’d been good, and they assured him they had in their most convincing voices. When he turned to Dot, Mike stuck out his tongue as far as it would go. Annie did her best to keep a straight face. Mike was the favourite of her cousins. His hair was redder than his brothers’, he had twice as many freckles, and his blue-green eyes danced with merriment.

‘And how are you, Dorothy?’ Father Maloney asked gravely.

‘I’m fine, Father,’ Dot replied with a glassy smile and a killing look in the direction of Mike, whose tongue was performing contortions.

‘You look tired, child.’ He frowned at the stack of ironing. ‘You should treat Sunday as a day of rest, someone in your condition.’

‘It’s a bit difficult, Father, y’see . . .’

But Father Maloney wasn’t interested. He blessed them quickly and departed. Annie and Marie immediately reclaimed the armchair.

The front door had scarcely closed, when Uncle Bert appeared, fully dressed. He’d even managed his tie, though the knot was crooked.

‘You’re too late, Dad. He’s gone,’ said Mike.

‘Bloody hell!’ Uncle Bert swore, and stumped back upstairs. The bed creaked again. He must have thrown himself on it fully clothed.

Dot was scraping her earring off the floor when Alan said, ‘What’s that smell?’

‘Jaysus, the custard!’ She opened the kitchen door and a cloud of smoke billowed out. The top and front of the stove were covered with a brown, blistering mess.

‘I like it burnt,’ said Mike.

‘I don’t,’ Tommy countered.

As if this were a signal for another fight, the boys fell upon each other and began to wrestle.

And that was when Dot threw the cup.

It shattered against the wall and the pieces fell onto the sideboard. ‘I can’t stand it!’ she screamed. ‘I can’t stand it another sodding minute!’ She stood in the kitchen door, her hands on her hips, looking madder than anyone had ever seen her look before.

Marie burst into tears, and the boys stopped wrestling and looked at their mother in alarm. Something terrible must have happened, something far worse than burnt custard.

‘Is Mr Attlee dead, Mam?’ Tommy asked nervously.

Dot glared. Upstairs, the bed creaked and Uncle Bert’s weary footsteps could be heard descending. The parlour door opened and the tall gaunt frame of Annie’s dad appeared. His hair, paler than Dot’s, almost salmon coloured, was plastered close to his narrow head, and his face wore an expression of unrelieved gloom. He looked at everyone nervously, but didn’t speak.

Uncle Bert came in and, to Annie’s surprise, he sat down and clumsily dragged Dot onto his knee. ‘What’s the matter, luv?’

Dot buried her head in his shoulder and gave a deep, heartrending sigh. ‘I can’t stand it another minute. This morning was the last straw.’

‘Here, youse lot, buy your mam a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate and get something for yourselves and the girls while you’re at it.’ Bert handed Tommy half a crown. ‘Take a ration book off the mantelpiece.’

Dot lifted her head. ‘Put your coats on, it’s still raining.’

Marie’s sobs ceased at the prospect of the chocolate, and as soon as the boys had gone, Annie’s dad crept into the room and sat down.

‘Come on, luv, spit it out.’ Bert stroked his wife’s arm.

‘It’s just there’s so much to do, Bert, looking after nine people; all the washing and ironing and the cooking. And when Father Maloney came, walked right in and there I was in the middle of the dinner and washing everywhere, I just wished I had me parlour back, that’s all.’

There was something significant about this last remark which Annie didn’t understand, because everyone fell silent.

It was Dot who spoke first. She looked at Annie’s dad directly. ‘I’m sorry, Ken, but it was only supposed to be temporary, and it’s been over four years. Now, what with Bert back, and another baby on the way – well, the house just isn’t big enough.’

There was another silence, and once again it was Dot who broke it. ‘If only Rose could give a hand, that’d help a bit.’

Uncle Bert said awkwardly, ‘Dot said the corporation came up with a house in Huyton, a nice modern one with three bedrooms.’

Annie’s dad spoke at last, and the words came out in a breathless rush. ‘It’s too far away. Me work’s on this side of town, Litherland and Waterloo. I couldn’t ride me bike to and from Huyton every day, it must be fifteen or twenty mile.’

Dot took a deep breath. She was still sitting on Bert’s knee, clinging to him as if it gave her the courage to speak out. ‘Ken, you’re me little brother, and I know you’ve been through a lot with Rose. If this was a bigger house, you could stay for ever, but . . .’ She broke off and began to cry quietly. ‘Oh, soddit! I hate saying this.’

‘It’s not right, y’know, Ken,’ Uncle Bert said gently. ‘Rose’ll never get better as long as you and Dot wait on her hand and foot. If you had a place of your own, the responsibility might do her good.’

Annie’s dad stared at his shoes. ‘I’ll see what I can do tomorrer. Bootle lost so many houses in the Blitz, there’s not much going . . .’

‘Good lad!’ Bert said heartily as Annie’s dad got up and left the room without another word.

Dot looked worried when the parlour door slammed shut more loudly than it need have. ‘Now he’s got the hump!’

‘Never mind, luv. It had to be said.’

‘I could kill that sodding Hitler for what he did to Rose.’

Annie, listening avidly, wondered what her auntie was on about.

‘She weren’t the only one, Dot,’ said Uncle Bert. ‘Other folks had as bad – and some had worse.’

Dot sighed. ‘I know. Even so . . .’ Her voice trailed away and they sat together companionably on the chair. ‘I suppose I’d better see to the dinner before something else burns.’

‘I’ll give you a hand, luv.’

Dot giggled. ‘You know what our Tommy said when I threw that cup? He asked if Mr Attlee had died. Jaysus, if anything had happened to ould Clement, I’d’ve thrown the whole bloody tea service.’

Three weeks later, the Harrisons went to live in Orlando Street, Seaforth, and life changed so completely that Annie felt as if they’d moved to the other side of the world.

Orlando Street seemed to stretch for miles and miles. More than one hundred polished red brick houses were on either side, built directly onto the pavement, identical, and as seamless as a river. The paintwork was severe: bottle green, maroon or brown doors and window frames, a few black. Once a year, Annie’s dad repainted the outside woodwork the same bitter-chocolate colour.

When Annie was older, she would remark disdainfully: ‘The world would end if someone painted a door blue or pink. I’m going to have the front door of my house bright yellow!’

In all the years she lived there, she always had to check the number to make sure it was the right house, and her heart sank when she turned the corner into Orlando Street. The awful day the Harrisons moved to Number thirty-eight remained for ever etched in her mind.

Uncle Bert turned up with a lorry and the beds were loaded in the back, along with their possessions, which Dot had carefully packed in cardboard boxes. Dad’s bike was fetched from the back yard.

Dad looked bewildered and angry when he emerged with Mam. She wore her best coat made of funny, curly fur, and blinked at the daylight, as if she rarely saw it, her face all tight and pale.

‘The girls’d better go in the back, they can sit on one of the beds,’ Dad said curtly as he helped his wife into the cab.

Dot pursed her lips and yelled, ‘One of you lads, come here.’ When Mike appeared, she said, ‘Go with them, luv. Poor little mites, they’ll be scared out of their wits stuck in there all on their own.’

Mike evidently thought this a treat. His face lit up, and he leapt into the lorry and threw himself onto the bedsprings with a whoop.

When Uncle Bert picked up Marie, Dot burst into wild tears. ‘There’s no need to take the girls, Ken. Why not leave them with us?’

Annie, unsure what was going on, had a feeling this would be preferable, and grabbed her auntie’s hand, but Dad shook his head.

‘No,’ he said in a thin, stubborn voice. ‘It’s about time Rose took some responsibility, like Bert said.’

‘Jaysus!’ Dot sobbed. ‘He didn’t mean the girls. Oh, if only I’d kept me big mouth shut!’

An hour later, Annie and her sister watched Uncle Bert drive away, Mike hanging out of the passenger window, waving. They waved back until the lorry turned the corner, then looked at each other nervously and went back into their new house.

Annie hated it as much as she hated the street. She hated the dark, faded wallpaper and the furniture left by the previous tenant, which Dad told Dot he’d got at a knock-down price.

The parlour was scary. There was something sinister about the tall cupboard with its leaded glass doors, the panes like a hundred eyes, glaring at her, unwelcoming and unfriendly, and the big black sideboard, full of whirls and curls, was something the devil himself might have.

She went upstairs and gasped in amazement. A bathroom! She climbed onto the lavatory with some difficulty, and stayed perched on the wooden seat for several minutes to get the feel of it, then pulled the chain. It was odd using a lavatory indoors, and rather exciting, though she’d prefer to be with Dot and Bert and the lavvy at the bottom of the yard.

She tiptoed into the rear bedroom which overlooked the backyard. ‘Strewth!’ she gasped, in exactly the same tone as Auntie Dot used. Like the parlour, the room was full of dark, gloomy furniture. A dressing table in front of the window shut out most of the light. Another single bed was already there, as well as their own, which meant they could have one each. Their clothes were in a box on the floor.

One by one, Annie gingerly opened the drawers in case anything interesting had been left behind. ‘Strewth!’ she said again, when the smell of mothballs made her sneeze. Apart from their lining of yellow newspapers, the drawers were empty, as was the wardrobe, except for three coathangers which she couldn’t reach.

She unpacked their clothes and put most away, leaving the frocks for Dad to hang up. As she gravely carried out this task, she felt grown up and responsible, though she knew she was only delaying the time she dreaded: the time when she would have to go downstairs and face her mam.

Eventually, when she could put it off no longer, Annie crept down into the living room. Mam was in the armchair by the window, her head turned towards the wall.

Annie stared at her curiously. This pretty lady with the sad grey eyes and cascade of dark cloudy hair was supposed to be her mam, yet she seemed like a stranger. It was Auntie Dot who’d brought them up, taken them to the clinic and to Mass. It was into Dot’s warm, rough arms they snuggled when they needed love, whilst their mam remained in the parlour, emerging occasionally on Sundays or at Christmas or if Dot had arranged a birthday tea, when she would sit, wan and pale and silent. Sometimes, at Dot’s urging, the girls went in to see her. Mam would be in bed or in a chair, staring vacantly out of the window. The girls never stayed long, because Mam never spoke, hardly looked at them, and a few times she hadn’t even opened her eyes.

‘It’s not her body that’s sick, it’s her mind,’ Dot had told them only a few days ago, and Annie imagined inside Mam’s head being full of sores. ‘It’s that sodding Hitler what done it!’ Dot, angry, slammed the iron down onto the collar of Bert’s working shirt. ‘Poor girl, such a pretty thing she was, well, still is, but the life’s been squeezed out of her.’

‘What did Hitler do to me mam?’ Annie asked, imagining the monster personally squeezing the life out of her mother.

Dot sighed as she steered the iron around a row of buttons. ‘Oh, I suppose you’ve got to know some time, and now’s as good a time as any. It’s just that you and Marie would have had an older brother if he hadn’t been taken to heaven at eighteen months.’ She made the sign of the cross. ‘Johnny. Lovely little lad he was, dark, like your mam and Marie. He was born the first month of the war, just after our Alan.’ She folded the shirt and reached for another. ‘One night, after the siren went, your mam left him by himself for a minute, just a minute, mind, when the house was bombed and Johnny was killed. Poor Rose, she’s never got over it.’ Dot paused over a cuff. ‘Mind you,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘she should be better by now, it’s six years. Lots of terrible things happened to people during the war, but they pulled through.’

Standing by her mam, Annie felt overcome with misery. She didn’t want to be in this dark, quiet house, away from Dot and Bert and her boisterous cousins. She badly wanted to be kissed and cuddled and told everything was going to be all right. Marie was in the kitchen, chattering away. Dad just grunted in reply. Mam didn’t appear to have noticed Annie was there; her face was still turned away. Annie climbed onto her knee and lay there, waiting for an arm to curl around her neck. But her mother remained as still as a statue. After a while, Annie slid off and went upstairs to sit on the bed and wonder what was going to happen to them.

A few minutes later, Marie crept in, her impish little face downcast. ‘Don’t like it here,’ she said tearfully. ‘Want Auntie Dot.’

‘Sit on me knee,’ commanded Annie, ‘and pretend I’m your auntie.’

So Marie climbed on her sister’s knee, and they sat there, sniffing miserably, until Dad called to say tea was ready.

A month later, Dot appeared with a black pram containing a tiny baby with bright red hair and bright blue eyes. Her belly was back to its normal size, and she looked lean and pretty, in a white cardigan over a green skirt and blouse, and with a green ribbon around her carroty curls.

‘This is Pete,’ she said proudly. ‘Your new cousin.’

She left the pram outside and carried the baby indoors. The girls were so pleased to see her they clung to her skirt, hugging her legs. They’d feared they might never see Dot again.

‘Where did he come from?’ Marie demanded.

‘Can I hold him?’ asked Annie.

‘I found him under a gooseberry bush,’ Dot twinkled. ‘Sit down, Annie, and you can nurse him for a while. Careful, now. I’d have come before, but as you can see, I’ve been rather busy.’ As soon as the baby was deposited in Annie’s arms, Marie climbed onto her aunt’s knee.

Dot turned to Mam, who was in her usual chair by the window. ‘How are you, Rose? Have you settled in, like?’ she asked brightly.

Annie looked up from examining the baby’s face, his short ginger lashes, his petal pink ears, curious to see Mam’s reaction. She scarcely moved from the chair all day except to make the tea, when she would waft in and out of the kitchen like a ghost to peel potatoes laboriously and mince meat in the curious rusty machine left by the previous tenant. Often, the potatoes hadn’t boiled long enough and were hard inside, and Dad had to do them again. He brought the meat home in his saddlebag, and at weekends did the washing, hanging their frocks and petticoats and knickers on the line. When Mrs Flaherty, the widow next door, offered to help, ‘Your poor wife being ill, like,’ he churlishly refused.

Mam rarely spoke. Even if the girls asked a question, she mostly didn’t answer, just looked at them in a vacant way, as if they were invisible and she wondered where the voice had come from.

‘I think so,’ Mam whispered in response to Dot’s enquiry.

‘And how are you coping with the girls, Rose? Don’t forget, I’d be happy to have them if they’re too much for you. We’ve missed them a lot. In fact, Alan cried every night for a week after they’d gone.’

Not to be outdone, Marie said quickly, ‘We cry too, Auntie Dot. Me and Annie cry every single night.’

‘Do you now!’ Dot said in a tight voice. ‘And what do you do with yourselves all day?’

Annie and Marie looked at each other.

‘We draw.’

‘And play with our dolls.’

‘Have you been to the park yet? And there’s sands not far away.’

‘No, Auntie, we haven’t been anywhere, ’cept to the shop for a loaf sometimes,’ Annie said importantly. ‘Our dad leaves the money.’

‘I see!’ Dot’s voice was still tight. ‘Shall we go to the sands now?’

‘Yes, please!’ they chorused.

‘Get your coats, then. There’s a chill in the air for June.’

Dot didn’t say another word until they were outside. As they walked along Orlando Street with Pete tucked up in his pram and the girls skipping along each side clutching the handle, she asked casually, ‘Are you eating proper? What do you have for breakfast?’

‘Cornflakes,’ replied Annie, ‘and we have bread and jam for dinner.’ She didn’t add, because she felt Dot wouldn’t approve, that it was she who got the cornflakes because Mam usually forgot, and by the time they were hungry again and there was no sign of food on the horizon, she would cut four thick slices of bread and smear them with margarine and jam. Twice she’d cut her finger as well as the bread, but the blood merged with the jam and was hardly noticeable.

‘Bread and jam? Jaysus, that’s no meal for two growing girls,’ Dot said caustically. ‘You got better than that in our house.’

‘Bread and jam’s me favourite,’ Marie piped, so Dot said no more, though later, as she steered the pram across the busy main road, she said firmly, ‘From now on, your Auntie Dot’ll come as often as she can.’ Then she muttered, half to herself, ‘As for your mam, I’m not sure whether to feel sorry for her, or give her a good kick up the arse!’

Annie started school in September. On her first day, Dad went into work late and took her on the crossbar of his bike.

St Joan of Arc’s was in Bootle. Her cousins were already there and could ‘keep an eye on her’, Dot promised. It was a long walk, but Annie was glad to return to the familiar bombscarred streets, where women sat on their doorsteps on sunny days, and children played hopscotch on the pavements or whizzed around the lampposts on home-made swings. No-one played out in Orlando Street. Most residents were old, and if a child dared so much as kick a ball, they were told to play elsewhere.

One of the best things about school was the dinners. Dinners were almost as nice as lessons. Because she wanted the nuns to like her, Annie paid close attention during class. She was one of the first to learn to read and do sums, but her favourite lesson was drawing. The nuns called it ‘Art’, and were impressed with her pictures of ‘pretty ladies in nice dresses’. One, Sister Finbar, wrote a note to Annie’s mam to say she must be ‘encouraged wit