officers and doctors. Mam meant them when she said ‘People won’t like it,’ and now this old terror is going to tell on me just so’s she can get more money out of Mam!
‘I’ll write to my mother, Mrs Roberts,’ Linnet said, suddenly seeing that in prevarication lay her salvation. The longer she made Mrs Roberts wait for a reply the more likely the old girl was to forget the whole business. ‘It’s for her to decide, but I don’t think she’d like someone else living here when she’s gone to such trouble to keep the place nice, do you? I mean there’s all the ornaments and the knick-knacks, to say nothing of the pictures. Some of them are valuable, you know.’
‘Oh aye, but if it were another gairl from ’er very own theaytre?’ Mrs Roberts said, almost pleadingly, Linnet thought. ‘Norra rough type o’ woman but a nice little actress, say? A decent gairl what ’ud tek good care o’ you, for your mam?’
Oddly enough, the thought of company made Linnet hesitate before reiterating firmly, ‘I’ll have to write to my mother, Mrs Roberts.’ She had sat herself down on the little round chair with the tassels, now she stood up as she had seen her mother do when she wanted to end an interview. ‘Thank you for calling,’ she said with great formality. ‘As soon as I hear from my mother I’ll let you know.’
She watched Mrs Roberts out of the door and down the stairs, then she settled herself at the table with a pot of ink, a scratchy pen, and a pad of paper. She would write to her mother immediately, and then she would nip round and see Roddy. He would have an opinion on the matter, she was sure of it – and Mrs Sullivan, though her home was threadbare and money tight, had her head screwed on right in certain directions. She would soon tell Linnet whether she was being taken advantage of or not!
Roddy was having his tea when Linnet knocked on the door and then entered, as she always did. The whole family were there, with Mrs Sullivan presiding over them all in her wrap-around apron and scuffed, down-at-heel shoes. When she saw who their visitor was she grinned at Linnet, revealing bare pink gums save for one defiant front tooth.
‘Well, if it ain’t our Linnet! Want some grub, chuck?’
‘Please, Miz Sullivan. And some advice, if you don’t mind.’
The arrangement was that Mrs Sullivan would feed Linnet during the school holidays and at weekends and Mrs Roberts would do so the rest of the time, so since this was a holiday Linnet felt entitled to slip onto one of the broken wooden chairs, square her elbows, and begin to eat, whilst explaining, rather thickly, that she was having a problem with her landlady.
Mrs Sullivan was a first-rate cook and could, as she was fond of saying, make a meal fit for a prince out of what others threw away. Her dumplings swimming in a rich mutton gravy had to be tasted to be believed and Linnet wished her present hostess might teach Mrs Roberts how to cook cabbage so that there was still flavour left in it, and potatoes so they didn’t just mysteriously disappear into the water. But of course she could not possibly say so, or not to Mrs Roberts at any rate.
‘More spuds?’ Mrs Sullivan said when Linnet’s plate was mysteriously cleared – it was mysterious, Linnet thought guiltily, when you considered that she had eaten what Mrs Roberts would no doubt think of as ‘a good, hot dinner’, not half an hour ago. ‘Eh, you’re one for your vittles, our Linnie, an’ no mistake.’
Liverpudlians dearly liked to shorten names and Mrs Sullivan was no exception. Roddy’s real name was Roderick, Freddy’s Frederick, Bert was Albert and Matt was Matthew. So Linnet did not object to being called Linnie but regarded it as a love-word, like alanna or acushla on Mam’s lips.
‘You mean I’m greedy, Mrs Sullivan,’ she said now, holding out her plate. ‘Just a couple then, if you can spare ’em. And now, what do you think? Mrs Roberts says prices have
‘I’ll write to my mother, Mrs Roberts,’ Linnet said, suddenly seeing that in prevarication lay her salvation. The longer she made Mrs Roberts wait for a reply the more likely the old girl was to forget the whole business. ‘It’s for her to decide, but I don’t think she’d like someone else living here when she’s gone to such trouble to keep the place nice, do you? I mean there’s all the ornaments and the knick-knacks, to say nothing of the pictures. Some of them are valuable, you know.’
‘Oh aye, but if it were another gairl from ’er very own theaytre?’ Mrs Roberts said, almost pleadingly, Linnet thought. ‘Norra rough type o’ woman but a nice little actress, say? A decent gairl what ’ud tek good care o’ you, for your mam?’
Oddly enough, the thought of company made Linnet hesitate before reiterating firmly, ‘I’ll have to write to my mother, Mrs Roberts.’ She had sat herself down on the little round chair with the tassels, now she stood up as she had seen her mother do when she wanted to end an interview. ‘Thank you for calling,’ she said with great formality. ‘As soon as I hear from my mother I’ll let you know.’
She watched Mrs Roberts out of the door and down the stairs, then she settled herself at the table with a pot of ink, a scratchy pen, and a pad of paper. She would write to her mother immediately, and then she would nip round and see Roddy. He would have an opinion on the matter, she was sure of it – and Mrs Sullivan, though her home was threadbare and money tight, had her head screwed on right in certain directions. She would soon tell Linnet whether she was being taken advantage of or not!
Roddy was having his tea when Linnet knocked on the door and then entered, as she always did. The whole family were there, with Mrs Sullivan presiding over them all in her wrap-around apron and scuffed, down-at-heel shoes. When she saw who their visitor was she grinned at Linnet, revealing bare pink gums save for one defiant front tooth.
‘Well, if it ain’t our Linnet! Want some grub, chuck?’
‘Please, Miz Sullivan. And some advice, if you don’t mind.’
The arrangement was that Mrs Sullivan would feed Linnet during the school holidays and at weekends and Mrs Roberts would do so the rest of the time, so since this was a holiday Linnet felt entitled to slip onto one of the broken wooden chairs, square her elbows, and begin to eat, whilst explaining, rather thickly, that she was having a problem with her landlady.
Mrs Sullivan was a first-rate cook and could, as she was fond of saying, make a meal fit for a prince out of what others threw away. Her dumplings swimming in a rich mutton gravy had to be tasted to be believed and Linnet wished her present hostess might teach Mrs Roberts how to cook cabbage so that there was still flavour left in it, and potatoes so they didn’t just mysteriously disappear into the water. But of course she could not possibly say so, or not to Mrs Roberts at any rate.
‘More spuds?’ Mrs Sullivan said when Linnet’s plate was mysteriously cleared – it was mysterious, Linnet thought guiltily, when you considered that she had eaten what Mrs Roberts would no doubt think of as ‘a good, hot dinner’, not half an hour ago. ‘Eh, you’re one for your vittles, our Linnie, an’ no mistake.’
Liverpudlians dearly liked to shorten names and Mrs Sullivan was no exception. Roddy’s real name was Roderick, Freddy’s Frederick, Bert was Albert and Matt was Matthew. So Linnet did not object to being called Linnie but regarded it as a love-word, like alanna or acushla on Mam’s lips.
‘You mean I’m greedy, Mrs Sullivan,’ she said now, holding out her plate. ‘Just a couple then, if you can spare ’em. And now, what do you think? Mrs Roberts says prices have
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