Winnie of the Waterfront Read Online Free Page B

well.
    His job as a timekeeper down at the docks meant that he spent his working day inside a tiny wooden box keeping a gimlet eye on the other men and noting the times they arrived and departed. He also checked in the lorries arriving with goods for shipment and the ones leaving the dockside laden after a boat had been unloaded. It was regular hours and decent-enough pay, but it didn’t broaden his shoulders or develop his muscles.
    Her youngest son, Paddy, had got chatting to him, and because he’d felt sorry for him had brought him home and asked her to give him a square meal and a bed. They’d talked half the night away, fortified by a flagon or two of stout. It had been too late to bother making up a bed for him so she’d invited him into her own bed and he’d taken it for granted that she wanted him to stay.
    At first she had been glad of his company, even though he was so quiet that half the time she hardly noticed if he was there or not. His gentle lovemaking, so different to Mick’s rough-and-ready treatment, had been like a soothing balm.
    It had gone on from there. She’d known she would soon tire of him because he was too quiet and reserved, but she had been feeling fragile at the time and had found his quiet, caring manner highly agreeable.
    She had never intended to marry him, of course! Neither had she thought she would end up pregnant, not at her age! She was almost fifty and she thought she was past worrying about that sort of thing.
    Events proved her wrong, and in shocked desperation she had accepted his proposal that they should make it legal. Anything seemed to be better than having to carry the sin of a backstreet abortion. Also, too many times she’d seen the dire consequences of what happened when one of those went wrong.
    It had been a mistake, of course. He was less than half her age for a start. Even her youngest boy, Paddy, was a couple of years older than Trevor. She had to admit, though, that marrying him had moved her up in the world a peg or two. They’d moved into two rooms in a better road than where her own squalid dump had been. They’d furnished it nicely into the bargain, because she’d refused to bring any of her bug-infested stuff with her. She’d made him buy everything new, even though he couldn’t afford it and they’d had to get it all on the knocker.
    Their new place hadn’t stayed looking good for very long, though. She’d never been able to keep a decent home together. When she and Michael O’Mara had first been married it had been the kids who turned the place into a right pigsty. As they’d got older and left home it had been Michael himself who’d been the problem. He’d been an untidy beggar, kicking his boots off as he came in the door and dropping his cap, coat and muffler onto the nearest chair. When he went to bed at night he’d dump his clothes on the floor, or anywhere that was handy, and since she could never be bothered to pick them up they stayed there until he needed them again.
    Between them they had made such a mess of the place that it took the heart out of her trying to keep it clean, so she gave up bothering. She’d never been fond of housework and since Mick hadn’t seemed to notice whether there were clean sheets on the bed or clean dishes on the table she’d stopped worrying. As long as there was a hot meal waiting for him when he got home, together with a plentiful supply of beer and a full packet of fags within easy reach, he was as happy as a sandboy. Fish and chips or faggots and peas were his favourites. The shop on the corner did both, so she usually nipped out five minutes before he was due home and bought two portions for him and one for herself. Now and again, as a special treat on a Sunday when the shop was closed, she’d do him a big greasy fry-up. Eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, a couple of thick slices of fried bread, and a handful of mushrooms or a tomato if she had them handy.
    Trevor had different tastes