who looked like Kim Novak, had dumped him recently for an American airman called Harry.
I smiled shyly. I’d always thought this chap of Barbara’s was rather nice. He was certainly very handsome and, although not very tall, he had the strong physique of a sportsman. I learned later that he was a prizewining boxer among fellow stewards on the ships. It didn’t surprise me. He reminded me of Dirk Bogarde in Doctor at Sea. He had the same pleasant smile and gentle way about him.
Having recently dated a steward called Chris I knew that he and the boy at the bus stop had both just returned from a three-month voyage to New Zealand. As I turned to say hello I remembered his name. It was John – John Prescott.
‘Hi, John,’ I said brightly. ‘You’re back then?’
‘Yes, we docked a few days ago.’ He smiled and his suntan made his teeth look really white.
There was an awkward pause.
‘I was so sorry to hear about you and Barbara,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Oh, thanks, but that didn’t matter,’ he replied, stoically. ‘I had another girlfriend in New Zealand anyway.’ He paused. ‘Are you still seeing Chris?’
‘No. He found another girl. They’re getting married.’
‘So is Barbara. She’s moving to the States.’
‘Oh.’ I stared down at my shoes, trying not to think what might have been.
‘Do you fancy going to the pictures one night, then?’
I looked up. My mind raced ahead of itself. If John knew Barbara and he also knew Chris, whom I’d been introduced to through my cousin, then he probably knew my history and yet he was still asking me out. He was certainly smiling warmly enough.
‘Yes, OK,’ I replied, on a whim. My bus pulled up just as I spoke, so I opened my handbag and fumbled with my purse. Stepping on to the bottom step, I turned and smiled back at him.
‘See you outside the Regal on Saturday night,’ he called out as the bus pulled away. ‘Seven o’clock?’
I gave him a little wave. His hand came up in a sort of salute and I couldn’t help but laugh. All the way home, I hoped that he did know about Paul so that I wouldn’t have to tell him. Not that I was ashamed – I was never ashamed of my son – but it was always a little awkward telling someone for the first time. John seemed a nice enough chap, though. I smiled at the thought of an evening in his company. I was eighteen years old. It would do me good to have a boyfriend again.
I’d always liked men in uniform, which probably stemmed back to seeing my dad in khaki during the war. The Cunard and White Star stewards not only had smart uniforms, they were especially sought after by all the girls in Liverpool and Chester for other reasons. Having experienced the finest luxury the world’s greatest cruise ships had to offer, they knew just how to treat a girl. They earned good money, especially on their longer voyages, and there was something terribly romantic about a man in a navy jacket and black bow tie sending you postcards and messages from around the world.
A few days later, John took me to the Regal to see a film I don’t now recall a single thing about. My uncle Wilf, the husband of my father’s sister Jane, was probably playing the organ as usual, rising out of the floor on the Wurlitzer, but I don’t remember what he played. We sat quite near the front but after a few minutes he suggested we move to the back row. ‘You’re talking too loudly,’ he said, which I’m sure was just a ruse.
I liked John right from the start. He was funny and he made me laugh. ‘You remind me of someone famous, now who is it…?’ he said.
‘Elizabeth Taylor?’ I asked hopefully, always flattered when the comparison was made.
‘No – Joyce Grenfell!’ he replied with a grin.
Chatting over a drink afterwards, I discovered quite a lot about him and what life was like at sea. He told me about one steward on their last voyage who’d kept them awake playing the guitar and singing all the time. His name was Tommy Steele. I learned of John’s strong political convictions and his dedication to improving conditions at sea, even if it made him unpopular with his employers.
I was surprised to discover that John’s father, a disabled railway signalman from Liverpool known as ‘Bert’, was a friend of my boss Mr Guifreda. John’s mother Phyllis was a Quaintways client. I wondered if I knew her and that – if I did – whether she knew about Paul, too.
I found out soon enough because John took me home to meet her a week or so later. I recognized her straight away. She was a striking, terribly smart lady who was also a professional dressmaker and always wore the most beautiful clothes. I thought she was quite posh. Like my mother, she’d been in service. Like my parents, she and Bert had met by chance, although he’d spotted her on a railway platform instead of across a rooftop. We should have got on like a house on fire because of our common interests but straight away I picked up that Phyllis Prescott wasn’t very keen on me. I could guess why. A short time afterwards, my fears were confirmed. Chatting to a neighbour of hers, Phyllis complained, ‘My John’s taken up with a young girl who’s had a baby, you know. I’m sure he could do a lot better.’
‘Oh, what’s the girl’s name?’ the neighbour asked suspiciously.
‘Pauline Tilston.’
Unbeknown to John’s mum, the neighbour was my auntie Jane and she leapt to my defence. ‘Pauline Tilston is my brother Ernie’s daughter and she was brought up extremely well,’ she told her, bristling. ‘She’s a good girl and John’s lucky to have her.’
Despite once being a maid, Pbyllis was always a bit of a snob, although she was proud of her social aspirations. She’d happily recount the story that her neighbours in Rotherham called her ‘Lady Muck’ because she had the cleanest house and the finest clothes. She had a Royal Albert tea service and wore Chanel perfume. It used to embarrass John how his mother would dress – or ‘overdress’, he’d say. He had a special aversion to her hats, especially the frothy ‘jelly bag’ ones that sat on top of her hair. ‘She came to meet me one time with what looked like a pair of knickers on her head,’ he complained. He’s never liked hats since.
Having learned flower arranging, cake decorating and dressmaking to the best of her considerable ability, Phyllis entered her family into a national newspaper competition as the ‘Most Typical Family in Britain’. Much to her indignation, they came second. Soon afterwards, Bert, who’d lost a leg at Dunkirk, received a grant from the British Legion to buy a new semi-detached house in Upton, which – once again – became the smartest in the street. A staunch socialist, a keen fundraiser for the Labour Party and a huge influence on John politically, Phyllis was a force of nature. Nobody would ever be good enough for her eldest son John. She hadn’t dragged her family from Prestatyn via a Rotherham terrace with a lav in the yard and coal dumped in the alleyway for him to take up with a girl who’d had a baby out of wedlock.
Fortunately, John didn’t share her view and after a while – perhaps because of Mr Guifreda singing my praises as well – his mother began to soften towards me. She offered to run me up a couple of nice outfits and was perfectly pleasant to me, even when her own marriage was in trouble.
As well as working on the railways, John’s father Bert was a magistrate, Labour councillor and loveable rogue who’d had several affairs. When John was just a lad, he’d spotted his father on the Chester Walls kissing a woman and was so shocked that he ran to the police station to report him. ‘I want you to arrest my dad!’ he told a sergeant on duty.
‘Go home, son, and don’t tell your mother,’ the sergeant replied, ruffling the hair on his head. John always laughed when he told that story but he felt terribly let down and still does to this day.
Bert was a big man with a big personality; everyone knew him, this gigolo who never paid for anything and only ever took his family on holidays to places like Bridlington and Scarborough to a trade union conference or to bluff his way into the Labour Party conferences and get a free