The White Empress by Lyn Andrews Read Free Book Online Page A

despair,
     or listen to the tart remarks of Maisey O’Dwyer. She squared her shoulders. This was one night when Shelagh was going to come
     straight home from work with her week’s wage intact!
    She ran down the street, the faded blue cotton skirt flapping round her bare legs, the grubby plimsoles shewore on her feet making no sound on the cobbles. Already she could see the workers streaming out through the gates of the
     sugar refinery and the air was rent with the ‘knocking-off’ whistles of all the factories. Vauxhall Road was crowded with
     workers finished for the week, their wages in their pockets.
    She dodged between bicycles, carts and trams. Pushing and shoving her way through the crowds, trying to see the familiar face
     beneath the white cotton turban all the girls wore covering their hair. She spotted Bessie Abbot and called out to her. Bessie
     waved cheerfully.
    ‘Where’s our Shelagh? Bessie, have you seen her?’
    ‘Last time I saw her she was off with our Maggie and the others.’
    ‘Off where?’
    ‘Ma Boyle’s, I think they said. She’d brought her clothes with her, said she wasn’t goin’ home to get bawled out for spending
     her own money. Said she was going to enjoy it.’
    ‘Oh, did she now! Where’s Ma Boyle’s?’
    ‘Old Hall Street, next to The Albany. Ask anyone, you can’t miss it!’
    It took her nearly fifteen minutes to reach the junction of Vauxhall Road and Tithebarn Street, so congested was the traffic.
     By the time the imposing façade of Exchange Station came into sight she was breathless. She leaned against the corner of the
     building that flanked Bixteth Street, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t care how much of a scene she made,
     Shelagh was coming home with her! She walked on and turned up Old Hall Street. There were plenty of pubsand all of them full. The bowler-hatted, stiff-collared brigade of office workers only frequented these pubs and saloons at
     lunchtimes Monday to Friday and most of them finished at noon on Saturday, so the clientèle on Saturday nights was not of
     the usual, more refined sort.
    She’d never been inside a public house before and with some trepidation she pushed open the door of the first one she came
     to. Its name ‘The Coffee House’ was emblazoned above the door though she suspected that that beverage was seldom drunk on
     the premises. The heat, the smoke and the smell of beer hit her full in the face and she began to cough.
    ‘That’s it, girl, ger it off yer chest!’ Someone slapped her hard on the back. A group of men and girls were leaning against
     the wall, glasses in their hands.
    ‘Where’s Ma Boyle’s Oyster Saloon?’
    ‘Gerroff, luv, yer too young to go there!’ came the good-natured reply.
    ‘I’m looking for my sister, where is it, please?’
    A girl with very brassy blonde hair and a bright redand-green-flowered dress smiled at her. ‘A bit further up, luv, you can’t
     miss it.’
    Nodding her thanks she pushed her way out into the street again. The air was fresh and clean and she could smell the river
     on the breeze. How anyone could choose to be stuck in places like that, choked with tobacco and beer fumes and packed like
     sardines in a tin, was beyond her understanding.
    The girl had been right. The Oyster Saloon was unmistakable. It was very old and unique. Its door stood open giving a glimpse
     of low ceilings and plushupholstery. Like the Coffee House it was packed but gritting her teeth she elbowed her way in, blinking in the dim light.
     She knew she looked out of place. A skinny girl with untidy hair and smudges on her face. Bare legs and old plimsoles. The
     grubby, faded skirt and the old calico blouse that was split under the arms and damp with sweat. But she wasn’t going to let
     all that deter her.
    She ignored the amused and scornful glances, the heads jerked in her direction, the smirks on the faces of the women and girls
     in their crisp print dresses and high-heeled