The Leaving Of Liverpool Read Online Free PDF Page B

brown envelope tucked in the pouched pocket beneath the case top. She emptied it on the bed: passports, birth certificates, some letters with an American stamp and ‘Miss Margaret Connelly, 88 Bleecker Street, Greenwich Village, New York’ written on the back - she must be the Aunt Maggie the girls were going to live with - and a leather wallet with money in. Her heart did a cartwheel when she counted it out: thirty-six pound-notes.
    Thirty-six! She’d never seen so much money in her life before, not even half that much, not even a quarter. Did Gertie know about this? Had she counted it? Olive wouldn’t have minded a few quid to be going on with, but it wasn’t worth taking the risk. If she played her cards right, she might end up with the lot. It could be changed into dollars when she reached New York.
    Picking up Mollie’s passport, she wondered if she could make use of it. The photo inside was nothing like Mollie and had clearly been taken a few years ago. Her eyes were almost closed, her mouth was turned down, and she looked like a corpse. You never know, it might come in handy. It all depended on the way things turned out.
    She put everything back in the suitcase, closed it, and had a quick look in the girls’ locker: a washbag, two nightdresses, two more frocks, and a smart, navy-blue handbag that contained a comb, a couple of hankies, a pencil and a little notebook, but no purse. Mollie must have taken the purse with her and left the bag behind.
    Olive put the bag back and lay on her bunk to think. Gertie had been right to say she should be travelling steerage. Olive had been obliged to leave London in a hurry when she’d got into some serious trouble with the Sutton brothers, gangsters really, who’d give her a good beating if they found her - that’s if they didn’t kill her first. It was only because she’d been doing some private business of her own and not giving them their cut. It was her body, she thought indignantly. She didn’t see why she had to share what she made from selling it.
    She’d come to Liverpool only because she happened to be near Euston Station when she’d heard the Sutton brothers were after her and the next train to leave was for Lime Street. There hadn’t even been time to pack a bag. She’d hung around Liverpool for a few days until she discovered the Queen Maia was about to depart for New York and jumped at the chance. She’d seen New York in films: it was the sort of place where she could start a career in show business, something she’d longed to do for years. A steerage ticket didn’t cost more than a few bob, easily obtained on the Dock Road where foreign sailors hung about looking for women.
    It had been just as easy to persuade a friendly steward to find out if there was an empty space in third-class and get her away from the scum in steerage: dirty, smelly creatures with whinging kids and disgusting habits who couldn’t even speak English.
    The steward, Ashley was his name, had discovered there was an empty bunk in a third-class cabin with Gertie and the Kenny sisters. He’d brought her up through the kitchens because passengers were strictly forbidden to move from deck to deck. ‘You’d better behave yourself, gal,’ he advised. ‘If anyone finds out, don’t bring me into it. I’ll swear I’ve never seen you before. I suggest you stick to the cabin rather than flaunt yourself on deck.’
    She’d taken his advice, emerging only for an occasional breath of fresh air. The weather had been fine and, so far, the voyage had gone quite smoothly. She’d enjoyed having nothing to do for days on end apart from lie on the bunk and think about the future.
    He was all right, Ashley, not bad-looking, though it was a shame about the squint. But even he, helpful though he was, couldn’t manage to get her into the third-class dining room. ‘The passengers’ names are on a list and ticked off when they come in. There’s no way I can add your name,’ he said. At