Love Changes Everything (4 page)

‘I don't want to do that; I'm looking forward to opening it myself. Why can't I hand over what I have to give you and keep the rest and spend it whatever way I wish?'

‘Your dad won't agree to that, luv,' her mother sighed, shaking her head. ‘Don't worry about it,' she went on quickly when she saw Trixie's shoulders sag, ‘I'll make sure that he gives you back some pocket money.'

‘Yes, and knowing him, he'll trouser half the rest before he hands any over to you for housekeeping,' Trixie said in a disparaging voice. ‘Either that, or he'll give you less himself.'

‘You're probably right,' Maggie sighed, ‘but we'll have to wait and see. Make sure you don't say anything that might get his back up when you hand him your pay packet,' she warned. Go along with his wishes for the time being and I'll help you to sort it all out later if we have to.'

Trixie knew her mum was right and even though it wasn't what she wanted to do, any more than going to work in a factory was the sort of job she dreamed of doing, she realised that it made sense and promised to do as she advised.

Far more worrying was actually going to work for the first time. She knew she'd have to wear some sort of overall, but nevertheless she made sure that her hair was well brushed and gleaming because she was anxious to make a good impression on her first day.

Her Mum had shaken her awake before she left the house at half past six that morning, reminding her that she had to be at the factory by seven o'clock.

‘Don't forget, I've washed and ironed your blouse and skirt ready for you and left them to air on the clothes horse in front of the fire,' she said.

‘Whatever you do don't go making a noise and waking your dad up. He had a skinful last night so he won't be in the best of moods,' she cautioned. ‘Before you leave make sure the cover is on Cilla's cot so that she can't get out because I won't be home till gone nine and she's bound to be awake long before then.'

‘Are you sure I shouldn't call Dad? He ought to be at the dockside before eight o'clock!'

‘Yes, I know that,' her mother sighed, ‘but he may decide to have a lie in instead of going to work today. It depends on how he feels. If he does wake up before you leave then make him a cup of tea but don't mention going to work or anything else that might upset him. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Mum, don't worry. I won't have time to start an argument with him. I want to get to work on time myself.'

‘You'll be fine, luv!' Maggie gave her a reassuring kiss. ‘Work's not all that different from going to school; mind you, do as you're told and don't answer back.'

To Trixie's relief her dad had still been snoring his head off when she was dressed and ready to leave so she'd checked that Cilla was all right and then crept out as quietly as possible.

The factory was only a few hundred yards away and Trixie knew she could have made it in five minutes but she wanted to be there in good time.

Her dad had told her to ask for Fred Linacre the foreman who was one of his drinking mates. He'd also told her over and over again to remember that she was lucky to get taken on since she had no experience and there were ten people after every job in Liverpool.

Fred Linacre was a wiry, sharp-faced man who wore pebble glasses perched on his beak-like nose. He was standing just inside the entrance and although it was over five minutes before seven o'clock, he tapped ominously on his watch as she made herself known to him.

Trixie was not the only new girl starting work there on that Monday morning. The other newcomer was Ivy O'Malley, a small dark haired girl with vivid blue eyes who was a few years older than Trixie.

Fred Linacre ordered one of the chargehands, Dora Porter, a worried-looking, plain-faced girl in her late twenties, to show them where they were to hang their coats and to find them some overalls so that they could take their places on the assembly line and not waste any more time.

Dora hurried them through to a small room at the back of the building and told them to hang up their coats on one of the pegs. All of them were already in use so Trixie put hers on top of someone else's and hoped they wouldn't mind. Dora handed them both a long white coat-style apron and a white cotton mob cap to cover their heads with. Then, very fussily, she made sure that every strand of hair was tucked inside the cap, checked that their hands were clean, and then hurried them back on to the factory floor.

Under the watchful eye of Fred Linacre, who was strutting up and down like a sergeant major, Dora pointed out where they were to sit. The twenty other girls and women who were already busily working looked them up and down critically as they took their places and Dora instructed them about what they had to do.

Trixie found working at the biscuit factory was even worse than she had thought it would be. She would have given anything to be back at school, sitting in a classroom with her head buried in a book or absorbed in writing or even doing arithmetic. She could make sense of all that because it had a purpose; it was not only interesting but was also exciting, not like the task she was doing now that seemed to lead nowhere.

Each of the women on the assembly line had her own part to perform as the biscuits in various stages of production passed in front of them. Ivy had worked in a factory before; it had been a canning factory but the methods used were fairly similar, so she had no difficulty in understanding what she had to do.

Trixie's fingers were nowhere near as nimble or accustomed to performing the tasks expected of her and so she found it difficult to keep up with the others. The others worked automatically and although they weren't supposed to talk they communicated in whispers when Fred wasn't looking their way, knowing that he wouldn't hear them over the noise of the machinery and the general hubbub as boxes and tins were stacked up or moved around.

As the morning wore on she found performing the same repetitive task was increasingly monotonous. She was also aware that Fred Linacre seemed to take a special interest in what she was doing and that he was highly critical when she failed to do it right.

Over the next few days Fred not only made sure that Dora constantly changed Trixie's jobs on the assembly line, but he also seemed to expect her to work twice as hard as the other girls. It was as if he'd taken a personal dislike to her and she had no idea why.

What really upset her, though, was the way he constantly taunted her whenever she made the slightest mistake, telling her that Ivy had no problems doing whatever was asked of her.

‘I thought your dad told me that you were the brightest girl in your class at school,' he would comment in a loud voice so that everyone could hear. ‘If there's a grain of truth in that then I can't understand why you're are so slow picking things up or why you're so clumsy.'

If she failed to put right whatever it was she'd done wrong or to do it to his satisfaction he would ridicule her even more and sometimes order her to climb down from her stool and find a brush and sweep the floor.

‘You won't be able to make too many mistakes doing a job like that,' he'd smirk and look round expectantly waiting for the rest of the girls to laugh.

Fred Linacre would stand there, hands deep in his white overall jacket, watching every move Trixie made as she swept the floor, pointing with his toe if she missed a few crumbs, or a scrap of wrapping paper.

She tried hard not to let it worry her, but she felt mortified. She'd dreamed about leaving school and going to work at one of the shipping offices in Old Hall Street. She wouldn't have minded what she did; filing, copying things into ledgers, or even running messages and making the tea.

She'd planned that she would go to evening school and learn shorthand and typing and one day in the future she'd be promoted to the typing pool. Later on, once her shorthand was so proficient that she could take down letters that were dictated to her and type them back word perfect, she might even become a secretary to one of the managers or even one of the directors.

By then she'd be earning such good money that she'd be able to afford to move out of the miserable hovel in Virgil Street with her mum and Cilla to somewhere clean and respectable; perhaps even over to Wallasey.

She'd be able to afford to pay someone to teach Cilla to read and write because she was quite sure that, given the right encouragement, Cilla could do those things as well as other children did.

Sometimes Cilla had such an intelligent look in her great big grey eyes. It was only a question of finding the right person to unlock her little mind and encourage her to make the effort to learn such things.

There were times when she wished she was a Roman Catholic like her mum so that she could ask the Virgin Mary, or one of the saints, to help her. A couple of times she'd crept into one of their churches and lit a candle in Cilla's name and she was sure that for several days afterwards Cilla had shown signs of improvement.

She'd told her mother about what she'd done, but her father had overheard and flown into a rage and forbidden her to ever do such a thing again.

‘We don't want any of that bloody popish nonsense,' he'd told her angrily. ‘We're not Micks or Paddies, so don't let me catch you going near any of their places ever again.'

Her father had been so incensed about what she'd done that she'd not dared to even risk doing it ever again, but it made her all the more convinced that there was something in it after all.

‘Listen to what he says,' her mother warned. ‘He'll beat the living daylights out of you if he ever finds out you've been near a church again.'

‘But why, Mum? What does it matter to him if it can do Cilla some good?'

‘Your dad's against the Irish Catholics and all they stand for, as well as any other form of religion, and that's all there is to it,' Maggie told her. ‘Mind you, he'll be in the thick of the fray on Orangemen's Day so mind you keep clear of him when they parade through the city because the very sight of them puts him in a real fighting mood. A few drinks and his fists are flying and you know only too well what the consequences can be.'

As Trixie recalled how she'd had to bathe her mother's black eye that had been the result of her mentioning that she was thinking of giving up her charring jobs now that Trixie was working, she nodded in agreement.

It made Trixie all the more determined that one day she'd realise her dream to earn good money and then she'd take Cilla and her mother somewhere else to live; somewhere right away from Liverpool where the three of them could feel safe and be free from her father's bullying.

In the meantime, Trixie decided she'd try and make the best of her job at the factory. A couple of the older women on the assembly line tried to boost her confidence by telling her to take no notice of what Fred said.

‘He's a crusty old bachelor, that's why he's grumpy so much of the time.'

‘That's right! He's only picking on yer because you're a pretty little thing. Let him touch you up or even give you a kiss now and again and you'll find he's like a lump of putty in your hands.'

‘S'right,' another cackled. ‘Let him have his way and you might even get a pay rise.' She raised her thick grey eyebrows and laughed raucously.

‘Yeah, if you let him get his leg over he'll make you forewoman. How do you think that po-faced Dora got where she is and was made a chargehand?'

Trixie shuddered at their crude jokes. She couldn't even bear it when Fred stood close to her, let alone let him fondle her. Even the feel of his hot breath fanning her neck made her want to scream.

The only one who seemed to understand her dilemma was Ivy. Small and quiet she seemed to melt into the background most of the time. She was deft with her hands, and had no problem in mastering whatever job she was given.

‘I left my job at the canning factory because the chargehand was a chap like Fred Linacre,' she confided in Trixie at the end of the first week as they were taking off their overalls ready to leave. ‘He picked on me from day one,' she added.

‘I really do try to do my best, surely he must realise that,' Trixie sighed as she took her coat off the hook and put it on.

‘That's got nothing to do with it,' Ivy laughed. ‘It's because you cringe whenever he stands near you or try to move away,' she explained.

‘I can't help it! It's horrible when he's so close that I can feel him breathing down my neck.' Trixie shuddered and turned up her coat collar.

‘Don't I know it? This chap I've been telling you about was the same. He was always making advances to the youngest and prettiest girls there and, like Fred, he had his favourites. If you didn't mind him giving you the odd sly squeeze or letting him kiss and cuddle you, then you couldn't go wrong. The work could pile up in front of you and he'd simply stop the belt and make one of the others help you clear your pile. In my case, he'd stop the belt but make a scene and tell everyone that it was because I couldn't keep up and that it was costing them money because they'd lose their bonus.'

‘So you weren't one of his favourites?' Trixie said dryly.

‘I felt the same way about him as you do about Fred Linacre,' Ivy told her as she pulled on her hat.

‘So what happened? Did you simply hand in your notice, or did you get the sack?'

‘I stood up to him. One day when he put his arm around me and squeezed me tight up against him, I swung round and slapped him across the face.'

‘Oh, Ivy!' Trixie stared at her with a mixture of horror and admiration on her face.

‘It was what all the rest of the women had said time and again they wanted to do when he got fresh with them,' she laughed.