The Liverpool Matchgirl: The most heartwarming saga you'll read this summer

by Lyn Andrews

Genres: Family Life; Historical Fiction; Sagas; Women's Fiction; Historical Romance; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Parentless and alone on the streets of Liverpool, Lizzie must fight for a brighter future... Curl up this winter with a heart-warming and poignant saga by Sunday Times best selling author Lyn Andrews. Set in Liverpool in the years before the First World War, Liverpool Matchgirl is the perfect read for fans of Dilly Court, Rosie Goodwin or Call the Midwife. Liverpool, 1901. The Tempest family is all but destitute, barely able to put food on the table. When Florrie falls ill with pneumonia and Arthur is imprisoned after a drunken fight, their thirteen-year-old daughter Lizzie finds herself parentless, desperate and alone. Despite her young age, Lizzie has spirit and determination, and she knows that she must find work to keep herself off the streets. In a stroke of luck, she gets a job in the match factory, and foreman George Rutherford takes her under his wing. A new home with the Rutherfords promises a safe haven, but the years ahead will be far from trouble-free. And when Lizzie gives her heart, how can she be sure she has chosen a better man than her own father? What readers are saying about The Liverpool Matchgirl : ' I couldn't put it down ' Amazon reader, 5 stars ' Love this book...another brilliant novel from a brilliant author ' Amazon reader, 5 stars 'An excellent read, Lyn Andrews never disappoints ' Amazon reader, 5 stars

Release date: March 8, 2018

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One



Liverpool1901

‘Lizzie, wake up! Wake up! Come on, luv, you have to get up now!’

The urgency of the words gradually penetrated Lizzie’s sleep-clogged mind but she wriggled further down in the bed. She didn’t want to wake up – and she certainly didn’t want to get out of her warm bed.

‘Lizzie, there’s no time to be tardy! Get up!’ Florrie Tempest shook her daughter, her face taut with anxiety. She wished she could let the girl sleep on, but she couldn’t.

Reluctantly Lizzie rubbed her eyes and struggled to sit up. ‘Oh, Mam! It’s the middle of the night and its cold!’ she protested, shivering as she clutched the thin blanket tightly to her.

‘I know, Lizzie, but . . . but we’ve got to . . . go!’

Lizzie’s eyes opened wider, her heart sank and she pulled a face. How many times before in her life had she heard those words? Too many, and she knew from bitter experience just what her mam was telling her. ‘Oh, not again, Mam! Where are we going this time?’

Florrie allowed herself the luxury of sitting down on the edge of the flock mattress. ‘Bootle . . . to Bennett Street your da said we’re to go. I’m afraid it’s going to be a long walk, luv.’

Lizzie nodded as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, curling her toes against the icy cold of the bare flagged floor, knowing her mam was right. It was a long way to walk. She had no idea what time it was, but she was certain there would be no trams or omnibuses running – even if they’d been able to afford the fare, which they decidedly could not. They were embarking on yet another ‘moonlight flit’ because, obviously, her da hadn’t paid the rent in weeks.

Over the years they’d had to move from one dilapidated, dismal, damp room to the next in every slum area of the city. Her da must owe pounds in unpaid rent to numerous landlords but she now realised that things had obviously become so bad that they were having to ‘flit’ even further away. To Bootle which, although adjacent to Liverpool, was not a suburb or a borough but a totally separate town. It had its own town hall, Mayor and Corporation, hospitals, churches and schools, trams and – more to the point – its own police force.

She shivered and frowned, remembering that her da and her eldest brother, Billy, were well known to the scuffers in Liverpool. In fact, eighteen-year-old Billy was currently serving time with hard labour in Walton Jail for theft. Her da too had spent time in the cells in the Bridewell and had gained something of a reputation as a persistent troublemaker, which was why he could seldom get any work. Her other brother, Edward – or Ned, as he was known – had declared when he was fifteen that he’d had enough of the ‘Pool’ and had gone to try to find work somewhere else, and they’d not heard from him since. She didn’t even know if he was alive or dead, and she knew her mam worried about him.

If she was truthful, she didn’t miss Billy at all; he’d never paid her much attention – she being five years younger – and had viewed her as something of a nuisance. She did miss Ned, though, for he’d always been more open, more affectionate and more cheerful than Billy. He’d been the one who had picked her up when she’d fallen over as a small child; he’d taken her side when she’d been teased and tormented by kids in the street. He’d tried to cheer her up when they were both hungry and cold and had been forced to move on – again. But even if, by some remote chance, he’d written to them, they moved so often that they never received any mail.

‘Have you got all our bits together, Mam?’ she asked as she began to search around in the dark for her boots and her shawl. She knew her mother dared not light the stump of a candle in case it alerted someone to the fact they were up and about. They never used the gaslight; there was never the penny to spare for it. She’d slept in her clothes for the bit of added warmth they provided, so at least she didn’t have to get dressed.

Florrie got up, pulling her own shawl tightly around her thin shoulders as she sighed heavily. There wasn’t much to ‘get together’; what little they did have she’d already tied up in a bundle. ‘Our things are by the door, luv,’ she replied heavily. The last thing she wanted was to move yet again. She was sick and tired of it all, but she’d long ago realised that Arthur Tempest – or ‘Art’, as he was known to his disreputable so-called ‘mates’ – would spend whatever he managed to get his hands on buying beer before he’d pay the rent, putting them constantly at risk of eviction and leaving very little for food or other basic necessities. She shook her head sadly, thinking things hadn’t always been like this – not in the first couple of years of her marriage, anyway.

She’d been a plump, pretty girl then, with light blonde hair and vivid blue eyes, and Art had been a well-built, handsome lad with a shock of thick black curls and brown eyes that had always held a twinkle. They’d had high hopes of one day living in a decent house – a whole house and not just a room – with enough money for food and clothes and fuel to keep the place warm in winter, and maybe the occasional night at the music hall as a treat. But those hopes had all faded when she’d had to give up her factory job after Billy was born, and then Ned. And then they’d died completely as Art had become disillusioned and increasingly bitter, while they’d sunk deeper and deeper into grinding poverty. Eventually he’d turned to drink to try to get through the depressing days and months and years. Now, she knew she looked old beyond her years; she was painfully thin, her hair was lank and streaked with grey, and constant worry and fear had etched deep lines on her face. Art’s hair too was turning grey, and drink had coarsened his features and soured an already volatile temper.

She sighed as she put her arm around Lizzie’s thin shoulders. With decent food and clothes Lizzie would be a pretty girl; she’d inherited her father’s thick, dark curling hair and her mother’s lively blue eyes. At least she’d managed to rear Lizzie to the age of thirteen. She’d lost both Lily and Sarah when they’d been barely toddlers. Babies and children had a hard time surviving the slums of Liverpool.

‘Come on, luv, we’d better get going,’ she urged, trying to put a brave face on the situation.

‘Where’s Da?’ Lizzie asked, still filled with bitter resentment at their predicament.

‘He’s going to meet us at Miller’s Bridge. He said it’s not far from there. He . . . he hopes he’ll have a better chance of getting work on the Bootle docks – you know he’s never had much luck on the docks up here.’

Lizzie didn’t reply, but she didn’t feel very optimistic about his chances. She knew her da had been marked out for years as a habitual drunkard and troublemaker, so he seldom got taken on anywhere. Maybe he’d stay out of the pubs in Bootle. She took some comfort from the fact that he wouldn’t have the money to be coming back here regularly to visit his ‘mates’ – he certainly wouldn’t walk all that way and back. Things just might improve. Her mam seemed to have accepted the way things were, but she herself found it hard; she’d noted that other people’s lives, although far from easy, didn’t seem as desperately bad as theirs. If only her da could get steady work and not waste his wages, she was sure life would become a lot easier for them all.

Picking up the bundle, Florrie cautiously opened the door, knowing the hinges creaked from lack of oil, and wincing as they did so. She was terrified the noise would wake some-one up, but the house remained silent. She urged Lizzie to follow her out into the dark, narrow lobby and they groped their way along the wall to the front door, which was never locked – after all, the occupants had nothing worth stealing. Both were relieved when they were at last out in the street.

The January night was bitterly cold. Frost sparkled on the cobbles and had etched delicate patterns on the darkened windowpanes of the surrounding houses, and the water in the gutters was frozen solid. The sky was dark but the moon was very bright; thousands of stars were visible, but it was quiet and there was no one in sight.

‘Well, I’m not sorry to be leaving this place,’ Lizzie whispered as they made their way as quickly but as carefully as they could towards the end of the street. ‘Maybe this new one will be better, Mam. Did Da say anything about it?’

Florrie shrugged. She didn’t have the girl’s optimism. ‘Not really. He just said it was a “decent enough” room with a few pieces of furniture and isn’t going to cost much to rent.’

Lizzie wondered about how decent it would really be, but she was glad that there would be furniture, for they had none at all of their own; their few pieces had been pawned or sold long ago. They didn’t even have any pans or plates or mugs, just a battered old kettle and one small blackened pot. Not that there was any need for such luxuries as pans and plates. There was hardly ever anything other than bread and a bit of dripping to eat. They used salvaged empty jam jars to drink the weak, unsweetened tea which was their only beverage, besides water from the standpipe in the street – and folk said that wasn’t safe to drink.

As they trudged on, through the silent and deserted streets, Lizzie felt her fingers and toes becoming numb. She had no stockings, and her thin dress and shawl did little to combat the bitter cold. She began to shiver uncontrollably and prayed they wouldn’t be confronted by a copper on his beat, for they had no plausible reason to be out at this time of night in such weather and could be arrested as vagrants. She also prayed that her da would indeed be waiting for them when they reached Miller’s Bridge, not sleeping off a bellyful of ale in some dosshouse. If he wasn’t, how would they find Bennett Street on their own? she thought fearfully. There was no one about to ask, and they couldn’t go banging on doors at this hour.

‘Is it much further, Mam?’ They seemed to having been walking for ages now, and she was tired, cold and hungry.

‘I don’t think so, Lizzie. I noticed that this road is called Brasenose Road, and your da said Miller’s Bridge Road crosses it. So we must be nearly there by now,’ Florrie replied thankfully. She too felt she could not go much further. She was feeling sick and dizzy with exhaustion and lack of food.

They both halted as they reached the crossroads and stood peering into the darkness of the deserted streets, which was alleviated a little by the few gaslights that still burned. Down to their left Lizzie could just make out the looming bulk of the huge warehouses that bounded the docks, and she knew that the river lay beyond. But then, to her profound relief, she caught sight of a familiar figure emerging from a doorway.

‘Well, youse two certainly took yer time about getting here! Me feet feel like two blocks of flaming ice!’ Art Tempest muttered belligerently.

Both Lizzie and Florrie smiled, despite the far from cheerful greeting.

‘It’s a long way to walk, Da, and we’re freezing cold too,’ Lizzie reminded him.

‘Well, we’re here now, so let’s go and find this house in Bennett Street. I’m fair dropping, I’m that tired,’ Florrie urged, handing the bundle containing their possessions over to her husband. He did smell of beer but, thankfully, he wasn’t drunk – he must have managed to pay at least a week’s rent on this new place.

Lizzie tagged along behind, also relieved at her da’s presence, but wondering just how squalid the new room would be. It was always the same, she mused sadly. Da would never change, he was just . . . Da. Well, she’d try to get a job, she vowed to herself. Any kind of a job would do, as long as she could earn a few shillings. She knew she was officially too young to be employed, but maybe if she said she was fourteen she’d find something. True, she had virtually no education, for she’d often been unable to go to school – she’d had no boots to wear, let alone a decent dress or pinafore, so she’d stayed at home. And they’d moved so frequently that she’d learned very little in the numerous schools she’d attended – the School Board hadn’t bothered much about the likes of her and her lack of attendance. She’d never stayed long enough in one place to make any real friends, either. She was small, even for thirteen, so she didn’t hold out much hope of passing for fourteen, but she had to try. She was fed up being forever hungry, cold, dirty and poorly dressed. Like her brother Ned, she was sick of the ‘Pool’. So maybe Bootle would prove to be a turning point in her short life – and one for the better.

Suddenly she remembered that they were just one year into the new century. Was that a good omen? she wondered. Everyone in their old street had seemed to think so, and that provided a glimmer of optimism; maybe they’d left the bad old days behind. That thought buoyed her up as she trudged the last few yards behind her parents.

When her father had lit the candle that stood in a battered tin holder on the mantel over the range, Lizzie looked around curiously. From what she could see this was indeed a far better room than the one they’d left. There was a big iron-framed bed taking up most of the space, but it had a mattress over which was spread a faded patchwork quilt. There was a small table and two straight-backed wooden chairs, a mesh-fronted food press and a chest of drawers. There was even a bit of a rag rug, set before the range, over which the previous tenants had rigged up a line, obviously to dry clothes.

‘Well?’ Art demanded, sitting down in one of the chairs and rubbing his cold hands together.

‘This will do us just fine, Art. You did well to find it, it’s much better than Fulton Street,’ Florrie replied gratefully. But she couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before the chest of drawers and the table would have to be chopped up for firewood. They seldom had money for coal, and it was one of Lizzie’s jobs to scour the streets for anything that would burn. There were no curtains at the window – but then, it had been years since she’d last had a pair of curtains. ‘I’ll get the bundle unpacked, it will seem more like home with our bits and pieces around us.’

Lizzie smiled tiredly at her mam; she knew Florrie was exhausted, but she was trying to make the best of things. All Lizzie wanted to do was climb into that bed and pull the quilt around her and sleep, but she doubted she would be very comfortable. They would all have to share the bed, but that didn’t bother her. She was always so exhausted that she slept soundly all night – but her da would take up most of the space, as usual.

‘I don’t suppose there’s anything ter eat in that bundle of stuff?’ Art queried, taking off his boots.

Florrie shook her head. ‘Sorry, luv, there isn’t. But first thing, I’ll go and find a shop that might give us some bread and tea – on the slate, like.’

Lizzie watched her father climb into the bed and pull the quilt over him. As she’d assumed, he took up most of the space; she’d have to make do with a few inches on the edge, as would her mam. Her belly rumbled emptily but she tried to ignore it. She’d go with her mam when it got light to find a shop, and just pray that the shopkeeper would take pity on them. Then she’d try to get her bearings in this new area and see what chances it offered of a job for her. Surely there must be a way out of all this?

Chapter Two



She’d slept fitfully until she was woken by the dismal grey light of the winter morning that crept in through the curtainless window. For a few seconds she couldn’t remember where she was. But taking in the few pieces of old, scarred furniture, she remembered and sat up. She was surprised to see that both her parents were already up. Her da was pulling on his old jacket and wrapping a grubby muffler around his neck, and her mam was trying to get a small fire lit in the range with the aid of some bits of wood and an old newspaper that she’d found in a corner of the room.

‘Maybe you’ll have some luck today at the docks, Art,’ Florrie said hopefully, blowing on the tiny flame.

‘I’ll give the Brocklebank dock a go first, as it’s the nearest. A feller I met in a pub opposite the dock gate said the blockerman there isn’t a bad bloke,’ he informed her.

Florrie nodded, picturing the foreman – or ‘blockerman’ – in his bowler hat. Maybe her husband would indeed manage to get at least half a day’s work, but how long would it be before he got into an argument with someone – probably the blockerman? ‘Good luck, then,’ she nodded, trying to sound encouraging.

‘I wonder what the neighbours are like, Mam?’ Lizzie ventured after her father had left. She had no idea how many other people lived in this small terraced house. As they’d arrived in the middle of the night, it would be obvious to everyone that they’d left their last place in a hurry.

‘I suppose we’ll find out today, Lizzie. Oh, this fire is going to die on me, I just know it! The paper’s damp – and so are these bits of kindling.’

‘Maybe we’ll find some good bits of wood and thick cardboard while we’re out, Mam,’ Lizzie said hopefully. There was nothing at all for breakfast, so the first thing they had to do was go out and find a shop.

As soon as they went out of the front door Lizzie realised the narrow street of terraced houses ran from Derby Road at its bottom end to the canal at the top end. She could see that there would be no shops up there and was about to remark on this fact to her mother when a woman emerged from the doorway behind them.

‘You look a bit lost, missus. Are you the ones who moved in late last night? I’m Nellie Gibbons,’ the woman greeted them affably.

Lizzie studied her as Florrie nodded. She looked to be about her mam’s age but she was better dressed, with a heavy, lined shawl over a flannel blouse and thick worsted skirt. Lizzie also noticed that she had good stout boots. A hemp shopping bag was over one arm and she clutched a battered purse in the other hand.

‘I’m Florrie Tempest and this here is our Lizzie. Me husband’s gone to see iffen he can get any work.’

‘What does he do then, luv?’ Nellie asked.

‘He’s a docker – a “holdsman”,’ explained Florrie. ‘Things haven’t been good lately, not for Art – on the Liverpool docks, at least. We’re hoping it will be better down here.’

The other woman nodded her understanding. It was a familiar story; work was hard to find for unskilled labourers but, not having met the man, she couldn’t judge if there was another reason why things had obviously gone very wrong for this family. Both her new neighbour and the girl looked half-starved, and it was obvious they’d had to do a ‘flit’ – something she too had had to undertake once or twice in her married life, although not for years now, thankfully. But she had taken a liking to them both for, despite their obvious plight, Florrie hadn’t made a meal of her situation – and the child looked bright enough.

‘Well, Florrie, I hope you’re right. I’m just off down to see Sadie Morgan at the shop on the corner of the dock road. Why don’t the pair of you come with me and I’ll introduce you, like? I don’t suppose you know this area at all?’

Florrie nodded gratefully. If Nellie Gibbons was prepared to ‘introduce’ her to the woman who had the corner shop, she stood a better chance of getting a few things on tick.

As they walked the two women chatted amiably, and Lizzie listened while taking in her new surroundings. They really didn’t seem very different at all to the area they’d just left, she mused. Same rows of old terraced houses all blackened with soot, same dirty narrow cobbled streets, same number of pubs and warehouses. She learned that Nellie’s husband usually managed to get work helping one or other of the carters who ferried goods by horse and cart from the docks to various parts of the city, as he was known to be reliable; but it also helped that she had two daughters who both had factory jobs locally and so contributed to the household budget. That there were factories in the area employing women and girls made Lizzie feel far more optimistic about the chance of a job for herself. She also learned that the Gibbons family rented two rooms and that there were two other tenants in the house, both of whom were unmarried men with regular work who tended to keep themselves to themselves, although it wasn’t unknown for Mr Herbert to go for a pint or two with Ernie Gibbons on occasion.

Morgan’s corner shop was the usual small, rather dark premises crammed with goods of all descriptions from tea, sugar, flour, oatmeal, bacon, lard, molasses and treacle to small bundles of kindling known as ‘chips’, washing soda, starch, carbolic soap, small bags of coal and even mop heads. There were already two other women purchasing groceries when Lizzie, her mam and their neighbour entered.

‘Mornin’, Nellie, I’ll be with you in a minute,’ the woman who was serving called out as Lizzie looked around, feeling hunger gnaw at her belly as she sniffed the tantalising smells which permeated the small cluttered space.

‘No rush, Sadie. I’ve brought you a new customer. Me new neighbour, Florrie Tempest, and this is their Lizzie,’ Nellie replied genially.

Three pairs of eyes were immediately turned on Lizzie and her mother, and Lizzie looked down, embarrassed by her dirty, creased clothes, untidy hair and grubby face.

‘Shouldn’t you be in school, girl?’ Sadie asked pointedly as she deftly weighed out two ounces of sugar, poured it into a small blue paper bag and twisted up the corners.

Lizzie said nothing; this wasn’t what she wanted to hear, not if she hoped to find work.

‘Oh, she’ll be going in a day or two, I suppose. We’ve only just moved into Bennett Street, you see, and we’re new to Bootle too,’ Florrie supplied.

‘Then it’ll be St John’s Church School for you, Lizzie, and I have to say that Mr Fletcher – the headmaster, like – doesn’t stand no nonsense,’ Sadie informed her.

Lizzie determined, there and then, that she was not going to set foot in St John’s school; she wanted a job. Maybe later on in the day she might get to meet Nellie Gibbons’ daughters and find out where they worked – and if there was any chance at all that she might get a job. Factory work was unskilled; you didn’t need an education for that, and she could write her name and read a bit.

At last it was her mam’s turn to be served and, after some initial hesitation on Sadie Morgan’s part, it was agreed that a couple of shillings’ worth of credit could be extended. ‘But I insist on being paid prompt on Friday evening, Florrie, after your feller gets his wages. If not, then I’m afraid that’s it – no more tick!’ she stated firmly.

Florrie nodded, praying that Art would have earned enough by Friday to cover her purchases, for it was now Wednesday and they’d need food for today and tomorrow too. More to the point, she prayed he wouldn’t spend the lot in the pub on the way home on Friday. These people were being kind to her, helping her, trusting her, and she knew she would be utterly humiliated if she had to let them down.

As they made the return journey to Bennett Street Lizzie kept her eyes peeled for bits of wood, cardboard, paper, even vegetable skins that could be used as fuel. But she felt warmed by the fact that her mam had been able to purchase a couple of ounces of tea, a loaf, a small tin of condensed milk, half a pound of dripping and a few pounds of potatoes. All of which were now being transported home in Nellie’s hemp bag. With a bit of luck there would be a slice of bread and dripping, and tea, when they got in, and then boiled potatoes when Da got home, later on – providing she could find enough stuff to keep the fire going to cook them.

Just as they were nearing the house the bell from St John’s Church began to toll. The mournful sound echoed down the street, partly drowning out the traffic noise, and both women stopped and looked at each other in some consternation.

‘What’s wrong, Mam? What is it?’ Lizzie asked, frowning and tugging at the edge of Florrie’s shawl.

‘That’s the tocsin bell. Someone’s died,’ Nellie pronounced grimly.

Lizzie didn’t understand. People were always dying – there were funerals nearly every day – so why was the church bell tolling?

‘Must be someone important. They don’t usually ring the bell unless it’s Sunday, and it never sounds like that then. It’s probably been announced in the morning paper, but we missed it,’ Nellie added.

Lizzie looked around and realised that doors were opening, up and down the street, and people were gathering in twos and threes, all looking very sombre and concerned.

Nellie took it upon herself to find out what had happened, calling over to an old man who was standing with two women, all shaking their heads. ‘Mr Peabody, what’s up? What’s happened? Who’s dead?’

‘It’s Queen Victoria, she . . . she died late yesterday, God rest her,’ he called back.

Florrie gasped, as did Nellie.

‘God ’ave mercy on her soul! It’s a sad, dark day, Florrie. I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t Queen – and neither can anyone else.’

Florrie nodded her agreement. She could remember the Golden Jubilee back in 1887, and even Lizzie had been able to enjoy the celebrations four years ago for the Diamond Jubilee. No one had ever reigned for so long before – it seemed that Victoria had always been there on the throne, and now it was hard to imagine that she’d . . . gone.

‘You’d best come on in with me and we’ll have a cup of tea, for the shock, like. I might even have a bit of soda bread left too,’ Nellie urged.

Lizzie’s mind was partly diverted from the momentous news by the thought of soda bread. Of course it was very sad that the Queen had died – but after all, she’d been very, very old. Lizzie had seen pictures of her: a dumpy, little old lady with grey hair pulled severely back under a white lace cap, and always wearing widow’s black. She’d looked rather grim, as if she never smiled or laughed. But perhaps you were not supposed to if you were such an important person as a Queen Empress? No doubt there would be a very grand funeral, down in London, in the near future – not that that would make any difference to their lives up here. Still, she was glad that Nellie Gibb. . .