Free Liverpool Taffy by Katie Flynn Page A

all that often, per’aps twice a week, an’ ’e never stays the night, ’cos … well, ’e never does, I swear it.’
    Biddy frowned. There was something funny going on here! Now that she thought about it, girls of sixteen just didn’t get to be buyers for big department stores, let alone live in the style to which Ellen had obviously become accustomed. Mam and I lived comfortably enough, but we didn’t have silk dresses, Biddy remembered. Mam often said that she didn’t allow her soft Irish brogue to be heard by customers, but even without a scouse accent she had never risen to be a buyer! And a boyfriend who paid the rent but didn’t live in the flat and never stayed over, a job which paid Ellen, at sixteen years old, well enough to wear pink silk dresses and to have a wardrobe stuffed with expensive garments … what was going on?
    ‘Look, Ellen, what you do is your business, but I must know what’s up if I’m going to share with you,’ she said as firmly as she could. ‘Who is this boyfriend who’s so generous … is he – is he married ?’
    ‘Oh ’eck, I knew you wouldn’t jest …’ Ellen turned away from the window, crossed the room and sat down on the sofa beside her friend. Then she turned her head and looked Biddy straight in the eye. ‘Awright, the whole truth, eh? ’Ere goes, then.’
    The sad little story was soon told. A child of a large family, Ellen had desperately wanted what she called ‘a nice life’. She got a job as a waitress in a big café not far from the pierhead and, following the example set by the prettiest, cheekiest member of staff, she began to flirt with any male customer who seemed interested.
    A great many seamen were not only interested, they wanted to get on even closer terms with pretty little Ellen Bradley, who made eyes at them and agreed to meet anyone after work who would spend a few bob on her.
    Then Ellen discovered that Mr Bowker, who was middle-aged, with false teeth and a thickening waistline, was watching her as he ate his chops. He was important, he rarely came into the café, and now, when he came, he liked to be served by Ellen.
    ‘So young, so fresh,’ he murmured to one of the other waitresses. ‘She’s wasted in this place … I’d like to see her in Gowns.’
    ‘He meant out of gowns,’ Mabel told her, giggling. ‘A rare one for the girls is Mr Bowker, though he does his pinching in private, like.’
    Ellen hadn’t known what Mabel meant, not at first, but after her very first outing with Mr Bowker she understood. She could have nice things, if she would let her elderly admirer have certain privileges.
    ‘Mr Bowker was ever so nice, ’e took me to the flicks, bought me a box o’ chocolates, drove me ’ome in ’is big motor car …’
    She made light of the clammy caresses, the persistent hand at her stocking top, though Biddy could tell from her expression that she had been shocked by his behaviour at first. The thing was, she told Biddy, that a boy’s hand could be – and often was – slapped away, but she had hesitated to give a man old enough to be her father so much as a quick shove. Not exactly a shy or retiring girl, nevertheless by the time she had finished her story her face was crimson.
    The upshot of those first tentative meetings had been that Mr B was very quickly enthralled by her, and terribly jealous of the fact that in her present job other men could look at her, flirt with her – might even have the success with her so far denied him. He tried hard to get her alone, to take advantage of her, but Ellen said proudly that she’d more sense than to let him carry on the way he wanted without any strings. And the depth and degree of his jealousy, when you realised that he was not himself free to marry her, carried a price.
    ‘A good job at the store and a place of me own, that was what I wanted in exchange for – for not lookin’ at other fellers no more,’ she said. ‘’E was all for givin’ me a job in Gowns