The White Empress

by Lyn Andrews

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

Synopsis

A young woman will stop at nothing to achieve her dreams...

The White Empress, by bestselling author Lyn Andrews, is a moving saga of a young woman who is determined to make her own way in life - and see the world whilst doing so. Perfect for fans of Anne Baker, Dilly Court and Maureen Lee.

Cat Cleary is a sixteen-year-old Irish 'slummy' arriving in Liverpool to seek her fortune. Joe Calligan, a young steam-packet deckhand, think she's the loveliest girl he's ever seen, and hasn't the heart to tell her that Liverpool is full of people tramping the streets looking for work.

And then Cat sees the White Empress, a huge luxury liner. In that moment her ambition is born - to be chief stewardess. In spite of her poverty, her lack of education, her family background, Cat Cleary sets about realising her incredible dream. And while doing so she discovers that having a good man by her side will bring her more happiness than she could ever have imagined.

(P)2020 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: August 16, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 416

Sample

I was once told that ‘scouse’ is a spoken, not a written, dialect and on commencing writing this book I found this to be profoundly
true. Therefore, I have used it only in the first chapter to ease the burden not only for myself, but for those readers not
fully acquainted with the dialect of my native city. I have, however, kept the conversations of the O’Dwyer family in ‘scouse’
to help lend ‘flavour’ to the background.


I would like to express my thanks to everyone who has helped me in researching this book. Mr George Musk, Archivist for Candian
Pacific Steamships. Nancy Williatte-Battet, Archivist of Canadian Pacific Railways. My aunt, Mrs Eileen Sabell, a former Chief
Stewardess on the Empresses, for her invaluable memoirs of life at sea and of conditions appertaining to work in the munitions
factories. My father, Mr Frank Moore, for his recollections of the city and port of Liverpool up to and including World War
II and his own experiences in the Royal Navy during that conflict. My mother, Mrs Monica Moore, for her advice on fashion
and its cost and many household details. My many ‘Gorry’ cousins, especially Marie Hazel Winter (nee Gorry). Number eighteen
Yew Tree Road, the home of my late great-aunt, still stands despite the ravages of war and I spent many happy hours there during
my childhood. The Eldon Street of both the pre-and post-war years has now gone, for what the Luftwaffe started the city planners
have continued to this day, to the detriment of Liverpool and its citizens. But the residents of Eldon Street, forming themselves
into a housing co-operative, have rebuilt their homes on the sites they have lived and worked on – an example of the dogged
determination of the native Liverpudlian to overcome all obstacles. A determination so characteristic throughout the dark
days of World War II.


In memory of the men who fought – and died – to save the SS Malakand, No.2 Husskison Dock was renamed the Malakand Dock. Captain Kinley and Mr Lappin both survived the May Blitz, but thousands
of men, women and children – on both sides of the Mersey – did not. All the movements of shipping and losses are as accurate
as I have been able to make them; also the timing of the raids during November and December 1940 and May 1941. HMS Firefly is a figment of my imagination. However, I have tried to reconstruct her demise with what I hope is some degree of accuracy.


And finally, I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, Robert, whose patience, understanding, tolerance and interest
have sustained me not only over the ten years of my writing career, but through twenty years of marriage.


(L.A.)



SHE HADN’T MEANT TO climb so far down. In fact she hadn’t meant to climb down at all and fascination now turned to fear. The sea, which from
the deck above had appeared in her young, inexperienced eyes to resemble a green meadow – its surface as calm and viridiscent
as dew on summer grass – had now turned grey and menacing. Its depths as dark and unfathomable as the peat bogs she had left
behind in the Old Country. Its voice, the sonorous lapping of the waves against the hull, now just a few feet below her, was
murmuring a warning.


It had been easy to clamber down. There had been all kinds of niches and projections to assist her descent. But they had apparently
vanished. Panic swept over her and she pressed her back against the cold steel, her fingers scrabbling desperately for something
to cling to, to stop her from falling.


‘I won’t look at it! I won’t look down!’ She forced herself to utter the words aloud, but there was no escape. The sea surrounded her. Everywhere her petrified gaze rested presented the same vista. She closed her eyes but that only made
her feel dizzy. ‘Oh, Sweet Jesus, help me!’ she gabbled. One lurch of the ship, one wave a little larger than the others and
. . .


‘What the bloody ’ell are yer doin’ down there!’

The voice came from above her and she opened her eyes. Squinting up into
the sunlight she could see no one. She could see nothing but that sheer slope of black steel.


‘Keep still! Don’t try ter move!’

The voice sounded very faint as if coming from far away.

‘’Ang on a bit, just wait til I think! Can yer sit down on that ledge?’

She looked down at the ledge on which her feet rested. It was barely wide enough for standing.

‘Ease yerself down! Slide yer back down against the ’ull an’ then gerrold of the ledge!’

Every muscle was frozen. She couldn’t move an inch. She tried to cry out but it was as though a huge hand gripped her throat.

‘If yer can’t manage it then just keep still! Stay as still as yer can, I’ll be back!’

He was going away! The only person who stood between her and . . . A tremor ran through her as a wave washed over her feet.
She was going to die! Something heavy hit her shoulder and despite the blind panic she twisted her head. It was some sort
of ladder made of rope.


‘Grab it!’ The voice from above yelled.

She needed no second telling. Her fingers locked around the rough hemp and she clung to it. Her cheek, wet with tears and
salt spray, pressed close to the thin wooden rung.


‘That’s it, girl! Now, put yer foot on the first rung! Go on! Yer won’t fall!’

Everything was swaying. The ship. The sea. Her lifeline. ‘I . . . I can’t!’

‘Gerron it! Yer’ve got to! Yer can’t ’ang there forever!’

Slowly she inched one foot upwards and the thin cardboard sole of
her battered shoe felt the wooden slat beneath it. But it was still moving!


‘Now, move yer right ’and up the rope an’ get yer other foot on the rung! Go on!’

In a moment of desperate courage she released her grip and then grabbed frantically for the ladder again.

‘Keep goin’ an’ don’t look down! When yer gerra bit further up I’ll climb over an’ ’elp yer, but yer too far down yet!’

Inch by inch she clawed her way from rung to rung, her eyes tightly closed, fighting down the sobs. Then a hand with a grip
like an iron vice caught her wrist and she was hauled bodily upwards in one swift movement. She felt the broad width of the
deck beneath her feet and slumped down in an exhausted, quaking heap, her back pressed against the superstructure. She could
hear the buzz of voices around her.


‘What the ’ell were yer tryin’ ter do, kill yerself or did yer think yer could walk on water?’

She opened her eyes. Her saviour stood towering over her. A black-haired, dark-eyed young deck hand.

He wiped away the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of a large, tanned hand and then pushed up the sleeves of the
black jersey across the front of which was emblazoned ‘The B & I Steam Packet Co’ in large white letters. Despite his remark
he watched her intently as he effortlessly pulled the rope ladder up on to the deck and began to coil it.


The faces of the crowd were pressing forward.

‘Come on, move back, give ’er some air! She’s alright now! Come on, shift yerselves, it’s not a bloody peep show!’

As they drew back, drifting away now the brief spectacle was over, she rubbed the sleeve of her blouse across her face. At
least she had stopped trembling.


‘Well, yer deaf or somethin’?’

‘No,’ she managed to stammer, trying to remember why she had done such a desperately foolish thing in the first place. Why
had she been such an eejit?


‘What’s yer name?’ He asked, hauling her to her feet. The grip on her arm was strong. His hand felt warm on her clammy skin.

‘Cat. Cat Cleary.’

‘What kind of a name is that?’

A little colour crept back into her cheeks and she tossed back the tangled, unruly chestnut curls. ‘It’s short for Catherine!’

‘Then why aren’t yer called Kate or Cathy? Why Cat? Bloody daft name tharris!’

Her fear was rapidly subsiding, being replaced by smarting resentment. The warmth of the sun adding resolution to put on a
brave face. ‘Sure, didn’t me sister Shelagh give me the nickname when I was five years old!’ She grimaced. ‘Nasty, sneaking little cat! Isn’t that just the name
for you Catherine Cleary, for that’s what you are! A cat! Cat Cleary!’ she mimicked. ‘So everyone’s called me that ever since!’


The crowd had completely disappeared. He had finished coiling the ladder and they both lapsed into silence, staring at each
other. She wasn’t bad looking, he thought. She was skinny and pale and the faded, cheap cotton blouse and creased linen skirt
looked as though they had been intended for someone of much more ample proportions. He noticed that the skirt was held up
by a large safety pin. Her shoes, sodden with salt water, were worn down at the heel and one was laced up with string. She
was too pale and thin and looked as though a gust of wind would knock her over, but her small oval face, with its pointed
chin, wide mouth and high cheekbones, was one that in a few years’ time men would look at twice. Her eyes were her most attractive
feature. They were wide and almost the same shade – of pale green flecked with grey – as the sea which had so nearly claimed
her. Her finely drawn, dark brows arched upwards and the thick mass of curling red-brown hair gave the piquant features an
elfin look. Aye, with some flesh on her bones and filled out in all the right places, in a few years she’d be what his mates
would term ‘a good lookin’ judy’.


Beneath his pentrating gaze Cat turned her head away. She should be grateful to him. She was grateful to him, but the way he stood looking at her – barely disguising the fact that he considered her a brainless eejit
– irritated her. He was tall. Much taller than her Pa, his stature enhanced by his powerful build. His shoulders were broad and his chest, beneath the regulation jersey, was deep
and expansive. His hair was thick and dark. So dark it looked like the sooty embers of a kitchen fire. It was blown back from
a broad brow by the breeze. His skin radiated raw good health for a life spent in the open had darkened its colour to nut
brown. He had a wide mouth and when he spoke he revealed strong, white teeth. It was a face full of vitality, mobility and,
she suspected, a sharp wit. There was nothing in his manner of the weary, downtrodden, despair that grinding poverty and hard
drink had stamped on her Pa and most of the other men she had known in her life. He seemed not to have a care in the world
and obviously feared nothing. He was about eighteen or nineteen she judged shrewdly, and she caught the hint of a smile in
the depths of his dark eyes and she felt annoyed and stupid.


‘What’s your name? I suppose I’ve to thank you for . . . for saving me?’

‘Joe. Joe Calligan an’ yer could sound a bit more appreciative, like!’

‘I’m sorry, that I am!’ She did try to sound more grateful but failed.

He leaned on the rail beside her. ‘Yer sorry I dragged yer back on board?’

‘No! No, it’s sorry I am that I snapped at you!’

He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth. ‘I still don’t known why yer did such a daft thing as to climb down on to that
ridge? Yer must ’ave fingernails like magnets, there’s nothin’ to gerrold of!’


Cat turned her head away. Golden sunlight sparkled on the calm green water below and her panic had completely evaporated.
‘I’ve never been on a boat before, not ever. I’d never even seen the sea until we set out from Dublin Bay. It just looked
so . . . big and . . . it sparkled . . .’ She faltered, unable to find the words to tell him how that vast expanse of shining
water had fascinated her so. How lulled into a sense of security she had become as she had been borne across it so effortlessly
by the sturdy, little steam packet, the Leinster. He remained silent and preoccupied and she sensed that somehow he understood. Perhaps he, too, felt the fascination that
for her had become almost fatal. She had only wanted to get closer to it, to smell its strange odour, to let it trickle through
her fingers and wash over her hot feet. Well, it had done that alright! And now she felt acutely idiotic.


She turned her back on it and gazed upwards at the black and green funnel with its narrow band of white, from which belched
a cloud of dirty grey smoke that rose in a column, sullying the clear blue sky. Her eyes moved across the deck to where a
white flag with its green and red cross fluttered from the stern rigging, alongside the red ensign.


‘It’s a ship, norra boat. If yer goin’ ter live in Liverpool yer’d berra get that right ter start with! Are yer stayin’ in
Liverpool or are yer goin’ on?’


‘We’re staying. Pa’s heard that there’s work to be had.’

There was such hope in the green eyes that looked up to him that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that one man in four was out of work. That men tramped the city streets from morning to night, looking for work – any kind of work.
He was lucky. He had been a deck hand for the British and Irish Steam Packet Company for a year now. ‘What kind of work did
’e do in Dublin?’


She shrugged. ‘Anything he could get. Labouring mostly, but he hasn’t had anything for nearly two years now.’

‘So yer’ve packed up an’ come to try yer luck?’

‘There wasn’t much to pack!’ she answered bitterly, her gaze flitting over his strong, muscular frame. He’d never gone to
bed hungry night after night. He’d never had to go begging along O’Connell Street, dressed in rags and with not a shoe to
his foot in the freezing depths of winter. Getting precious little in the way of money but plenty of cuffs and curses. No,
he’d never had to go back to the one stinking room they all shared in a crumbling, damp old house in a dark court off the
mean, dirty streets that bordered the quays beside the River Liffey. No, nothing could be worse than the life they’d left
in Dublin. ‘One of Pa’s friends told him there was work here, that they are digging a great tunnel right underneath the river
so that trains and trams and cars can go right from one side to the other. Is that the truth of it?’


‘Yes,’ he answered, laconically.

‘It is the truth, isn’t it? Sure, haven’t I wondered myself if it wasn’t some joke they’d made up! Won’t it burst open and
flood the whole place?’


‘Geroff, do yer think they’d dig it if they thought that would ’appen?’

It was obvious that he considered her an ignorant Irish slummy. Two bright spots of colour appeared on her cheeks and her
dark brows rushed together. ‘Well, if that’s the case, he’ll soon find work, won’t he?’


‘Don’t bet on it, ’alf the men of Liverpool are lookin’ fer work, too. An’ they’ve been diggin’ fer ages now.’

‘Well, aren’t the Irish famous for navvying? Didn’t they build all the railways over here!’ she flung back at him.

‘An’ where are yer goin’ ter live when yer get there? ’As yer Pa’s friend found yer all an ’ouse as well?’

By his tone she knew he was goading her again. ‘Well now, just for your information he has that! Almost.’

‘Believe tharran’ yer’ll believe anything. ’As he or ’asn’t he?’

‘We’ve got the address of a relation of Pa’s friend and he’s got a house. A proper house, not just a room like we had in Dublin!’

Joe looked down at her animated face. God help her! God help them all! Every trip he made he saw them, hundreds of them, just
like her. Their heads filled with tales of work, decent houses, money in their pockets. And he’d also seen what happened to
most of them. They usually finished up living in the same squalor and poverty they had left behind. They lived in the cramped,
narrow streets along the Dock Road or those between Vauxhall Road and Scotland Road that comprised the Catholic-Irish ghetto
and were often worse off than when they had sailed from Ireland.


‘How many of yer are there?’ He tried to sound interested.

‘Me, Ma and Pa, our Shelagh – she’s older than me – and me brother Eamon.’

‘Eamon?’ he repeated.

‘Didn’t me Pa name him after the President!’ she shot back. Why was it this Joe Calligan had the knack of increasing her irritation
with every word he uttered? Then a fleeting smile crossed her face as she thought of her young brother. Didn’t he have her
poor mother banjaxed with his antics and any similarity between him and Eamon de Valera ended with the name. Young Eamon Cleary
hardly ever went to school so there was little chance he’d end up as president of anything!


‘An’ what grand plans ’ave yer got fer yer new life?’

‘I’m sixteen! I can get a job! I can read and write and add up in me head!’

He laughed. She was a pert one. She’d already forgotten her narrow escape from drowning. All his questions had been intended
to divert her mind and the ploy had worked.


She rounded on him. ‘Aren’t you the quick one to be poking fun and laughing at the likes of me! I’ll get a job, you wait and
see and so will Pa and our Shelagh!’


‘Yer name suits yer alright! Proper little cat, aren’t yer! All sharp claws an’ spittin’ temper! Come on, I’ll take yer up
to the bow, yer might as well gerra look at the place yer all goin’ ter get so rich in!’


He was treating her like a six-year-old child and she was about to tell him she didn’t want him to show her anything. Then
her instinctive curiosity got the better of her. Besides, he was smiling without mockery now and had taken her arm and placed
it protectively in his and no one had ever done that before. In fact no one had ever shown anything but a cursory interest in her. She was sixteen and
had never had a boy to ‘walk out’ with.


The deck of the Leinster was crowded with people, mainly emigrants like herself, huddled in family groups. But here and there were groups of well-dressed
people. She caught sight of her sister leaning against the rail, simpering up at an uncouth-looking man in the shabby clothes
of a labourer. Cat grinned to herself as she saw Shelagh’s eyes widen and her mouth gape as she caught sight of her younger
sister, arm in arm with a ‘company employee’ and a young, handsome one at that! Cat looked up at Joe and, for the first time
since her ordeal, smiled. He was handsome and, despite her initial belligerence, she realised that she quite liked him.


The crowd parted as the young seaman shouldered his way through. He cleared a space for her at the bow end and with the breeze
bringing a blush of colour to her cheeks, the sun picking out the coppery tints in her hair and her eyes sparkling, he felt
a stirring of affection towards her. They had long since passed the bar light, where they had taken on the bowler-hatted pilot,
who would guide them through the treacherous shoals that were forever shifting, and into the deep water of the Crosby Channel,
between the line of restless buoys. On the starboard bow he pointed out a low sandbar that ran four miles parallel with the
Wirral coastline.


‘That’s Mockbeggar Wharf an’ the seabirds come from miles to rest up an’ feed on the spits. In the owld days ships were wrecked
there by men who purrout the light on Perch Rock. There’s an owld sayin’:


‘Wallasey for wreckers

Poulton for leaves

Leasowe for honest folk

Seacombe for thieves.’

He turned and pointed over the port bow. ‘That’s Crosby, yer can just see the big, owld ’ouses. An’ just down there is the
new dock, the Gladstone Dock. The docks start there an’ run for miles along the coast to Dingle an’ there’s a railway that
runs overhead all the way.’


She was not sure if he was joking. ‘Go on! Is it a fool you take me for, Joe Calligan?’

‘It’s the truth, it’s the longest in the world!’

‘Will you take me for a ride on it, then?’ she teased, still not fully believing him.

‘I might, one day.’

She shaded her eyes from the strong sunlight as the outline of the buildings in the hazy distance became clearer. It was a
grand sight to be sure. Surely in such a fine city there would be plenty of work for everyone? She tried to count the docks
but lost count after eight, her attention drawn to the number of ships that were either in dock or standing out in the river.
She watched, mesmerised, as with alarming accuracy the dredgers, barges and the ferry boats criss-crossed between cargo ships
at anchor and the towering double-and triple-funnelled liners.


‘I’ve never seen so many bo— ships! Where do they all come from and don’t they ever bump into the little ones?’

He laughed at her childlike questions. ‘The little ones don’t run on clockwork, they ’ave captains as well! They’re the ferries,
takin’ people an’ cargo backwards an’ forwards to Seacombe, Wallasey, Birkenhead an’ New Brighton. The big ones, the liners
. . .’


Cat waited for him to continue but he just stared ahead of him, lost in some private dream. She tugged at his sleeve. ‘Where
do they come from?’


‘All over the world. America. Australia, China, an’ one day I’m goin’ to gerra job on one! That’s a “real” job. A safe job
fer life an’ yer get paid for seein’ all the places yer’ve only dreamed of. Yer ’ave a proper uniform, norra second-’and jersey!’


She looked at him with renewed interest. ‘How are you going to get a job like that?’

His dark eyes clouded and he shrugged. ‘Yer gerra job like that if yer lucky or if yer ’ave the right qualifications an’ know
the “right” people!’


‘What are quali . . . quali . . .?’

‘Qualifications. Yer take examinations, a lorra writin’ an’ things like that, then yer get qualifications.’

She thought she understood. She had once met a boy who had gone to a proper school and worked at his books day and night and
had passed what he had called an examination and was going on to be a priest. She supposed it was something like that. ‘Well,
how do you know who the “right” people are?’


‘Yer’ve gorra lot t’ learn, Cat Cleary, especially when it comes ter people!’

‘You’re laughing at me again!’

‘No, I’m not! I bet yer already know a lorrabout people. Girl like you must be used ter livin’ off yer wits an’ that’s what I mean about “knowing” people! If yer nothin’ else,
Cat, yer streetwise!’


She completely misunderstood him. A scarlet flush arose from the base of her throat as anger swept over her and raising her
arm she struck him hard across the cheek. ‘Don’t you be calling me names like that! I’m no street girl! I’d starve before
. . . I’d do anything like that, so I would!’ She stood facing him, her thin body shaking with indignation, her eyes flashing
green fire.


‘If yer wasn’t a girl I’d belt yer for that! I didn’t mean anythin’ like that, what d’ yer take me for? I only meant that
yer can probably look after yerself!’ He rubbed his cheek ruefully. ‘Bloody little wildcat! Good job yer norra lad!’


Vituperative words sprang to her tongue but he silenced her by grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her to face port.
‘Now there’s a sight yer’ll never ’ave seen before an’ probably won’t see again!’


As quickly as it had risen her anger died. ‘What?’

‘There, tied up at the landing stage!’

‘I can only see those big buildings with those birds on top. Are they real birds, won’t they fly away?’

He became exasperated. ‘Don’t yer know nothin’ Cat Cleary? Those are the Liver Birds! ’Aven’t yer ’eard of them, even?’

Her eyes narrowed. Of course she’d heard of them. Everyone had. They were not real birds, she’d heard them called ‘mythical’
but what that meant only the good Lord knew, she didn’t. But she wasn’t about to let him know that. ‘Sure, I have! They’re
my— mythical.’


‘Sailors all over the world know the Liver Birds, an’ Liverpool is the biggest port in the world!’

She cast him a sceptical glance. He was certainly prone to boasting. First he had boasted that he was going to get a job on
a liner, now he obviously thought his native city was the biggest port in the world. And that she knew to be untrue. Hadn’t
her mother’s brother gone to New York and hadn’t he written that that was the biggest port in the world?


‘My Uncle Pat says New York is the biggest port in the world!’

‘Aye, I ’ear it’s big, but I’ll see it fer meself when I gerra job on the Mauretania or the Aquitania. They ’ave ballrooms an’ swimmin’ pools an’ restaurants an’ whole suites of rooms fer first class. You see, I’ll gerroff
these “cattle boats” someday!’


She scowled. She resented being referred to as ‘cattle’. ‘They’d need hundreds of people to work on them if they’re all that
big!’ The note of disbelief was obvious.


‘They do ’ave ’undreds, from the captain down ter the deck ’ands. ’An they are that big, an’ yer ’ave ter ’ave ’undreds of
pounds to go luxury class!’


An idea took hold of her. If he could boast, then so could she. ‘One day I’m going to be rich! Very rich!’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Yer’ll never be rich enough fer that! It’s only the likes of millionaires an’ royalty
that are that rich! Yer might get ter be a stewardess, though,’ he joked as an afterthought.


‘What’s a stewardess?’

‘A girl who looks after the women passengers.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Usually makin’ beds, cleanin’ cabins an’ bathrooms an’ generally ’elpin out.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s what most of them do. Only the chief stewardess an’ the first-class stewardesses look after the “real” ladies, an’
yer don’t stand a cat in ’ell’s chance of ever doin’ that!’


‘Not even if I get “qualifications” and get to know the “right” people?’

His demeanour changed. All the laughter had gone from his eyes for he had been quick to perceive the ray of hope that lit
up her face. Talk like this could only hurt her. ‘Look, Cat, forget I ever said anythin’ about stewardesses. It’s not fer
the likes of you! Bloody ’ell, I’m sorry I even mentioned it, it was a joke!’


‘Why?’ she demanded, stubbornly. If all you had to do was clean cabins, she could surely manage that.

‘Just look at yerself! Yer an Irish emigrant, norra penny ter yer name. Yer can’t speak properly. The only life yer’ve known
is the slums. Yer’ve no education, an’ I don’t mean just bein’ able ter read an’ write an’ add up in yer ’ead! Yer’ve gorra
’ave real education, know ’ow ter dress, talk proper, deal with people. Oh, forgerrit! Gerra job in a factory, the pays good, yer’ll
be ’appier there, amongst . . .’


‘Amongst me own kind, is that it? I can’t help how I dress and speak but I’m no fool, Joe Calligan! I can learn and I can
learn quickly!’


‘Cat, forgerrit! Everythin’s against yer! Yer’ll soon find out ’ow ’ard life is without fillin’ yer ’ead with dreams that
can’t ever come true!’


‘I can’t see that it would be so hard if all they do is make beds and clean? You don’t need an “education” for that!’

He began to lose patience with her and guilt stirred in him. ‘I said forgerrit! It’s not fer the likes of you!’

‘But you think its alright for you? Just what makes you so different from me? You don’t speak “properly”, you haven’t got
any better education than I have or else you wouldn’t be working on this “cattle boat”! You’d be working on one of those fancy
liners now, not just dreaming about it! You’re no better than me and if you can dream, then so can I!’


He drew away from her and stood scowling at her. She had touched his Achilles heel. She had made him face the reality. His,
too, was a dream. A dream nurtured by hours of watching the stately liners, fully laden with passengers and crew, pull away
from the Princes Landing Stage, nudged and guided by their accompanying tugs. To sail majestically down the Mersey to the
Bar, the Irish Sea and the Atlantic beyond. Hours of watching and listening to the captain and mate on the Dublin to Liverpool
ferry and dreaming tha