Sunday morning. I woke beside Maggie in her bed, in her little house, and let my eyes wander over the peeling wallpaper and cracked plaster. Then I rolled towards her, fitting myself against the curve of her back.
My hand rested on her thigh, soaking in her warmth, and my face was buried in her hair, soft and faintly scented. We might have stayed like that forever, but without any warning, I sneezed.
She jolted awake, blinked at me, then murmured a sleepy offer. “Fancy breakfast here? Tea and toast?”
“Ummm… please.”
Small domestic rituals carried us through the morning, the outside world reduced to a thin strip of sky above the next door’s roof. But that sky was a deep, promising blue – nothing like the days before. Near noon, I gently suggested a walk to the park, and we left the silent house. Maggie wore her olive‑green dress again; the new outfit hung carefully in the wardrobe, waiting for its moment.
The outside was as fine as it looked, a warm and bright spring day. A few minutes past the station, we stepped into Birkenhead Park, passing the invisible frontier from Maggie’s near‑slum street to cross the broad avenue where the foremen lived in neat three‑bedroom terraces with bay windows and polished brass knockers. On the other side, a winding drive led into the park, and behind tall hedges stood the bosses’ mansions. No more than a hundred yards separated poverty and wealth.
Maggie led me on, along curving drives and wide paths, through woodland and around lakes. Hand in hand, we joined the Sunday crowd – middle-class families in their best clothes, workers with rough hands and heavy boots, and children darting between them all.
Eventually, we found a kiosk, and with change from a couple of bob, I bought two double ninety‑nines. We strolled on, licking melting ice cream and biting through the chocolate flakes.
A cricket match caught my eye, and we settled on the grass by the boundary rope to watch. Park cricket doesn’t offer much action, and my thoughts drifted back to Maggie’s last words the night before. They’d unsettled me; nothing quite fitted, and I studied her profile, trying to piece it together.
“Maggie… last night, when you said Hilda’s your half‑sister, where are your parents?”
She sighed, her fingers tightening around mine.
“Ma’s in a home. Senile. Doesn’t know me from Adam. She was on the game too, and she never knew who my Da was – or Hilda’s either.” She gave a small shrug. “Probably burst rubbers.” She giggled. “You don’t need to worry; I’m on the pill.”
Her words hit like a cold douse of water. I slipped my arm around her shoulders, her fingers still locked with mine, and kissed her forehead.
“I’m sorry, love. That’s… horrible for you.”
“Hilda’s twelve years older than me, thirty now. She’s been more like an aunt than a sister since I was little. We’ve found it easier to tell people she is my aunt.”
I pulled her close and held her, the cricket match forgotten.
We sat there wrapped together, and I told myself I was comforting her, though I wasn’t sure who was holding whom. The game carried on around us. Willow cracked on leather, and the occasional shout rang out as a wicket fell, but none of it reached me.
She broke the quiet, her breath warm against my ear. “Let’s go back. I want to make love with you.”
Hand in hand, we left the boundary and retraced our steps across the broad avenue, past the neat terraces, and down towards the docks, where the streets grew mean again. Something in me had shifted. I still wanted her, but the wanting had changed shape. It carried a tenderness now, a protectiveness, as though she’d become someone newly revealed to me, someone fragile and precious.
After the spring warmth outside, her bedroom felt cold. I stood by the door while Maggie knelt by the fireplace, striking a series of matches to light the gas fire, and then, as she rose, said, “Close the door, Ken. The fire and our love can make us warm.”
She came to me and wrapped her arms around my head, pulling us into a deep kiss, tongues slowly touching, mixing our saliva to start our love play. I placed my hands on her breasts, kneading each one gently, then centred them over the top button of her dress.
One by one, her buttons surrendered to my fingers as our kiss deepened against the groan of bedsprings. "Ken", she breathed against my mouth, her voice muffled by my lips, "d'you know how to…"
"Shush," I muttered, fumbling with the last button. My other hand shifted to splay against the small of her back through her dress, and I felt a faint tremble run through her body.
In the other bedroom, I heard Hilda cough.
I whispered in her ear, “She’s here. Where’s she been?”
Maggie clasped my face between her hands, whispering, “Sometimes she goes to a punter’s place – if he’s a trusted regular. And don’t worry, this is my room, my private place.”
Hilda's footsteps creaked on the landing. Maggie froze, her breath hitching as the floorboards groaned right outside the door. But then, the steps retreated down the stairs, followed by a clatter in the kitchen.
“See,” she said, relaxing. “I told you we are safe.”
The final button gave way with a faint pop, revealing a sliver of skin beneath. My thumb brushed the ridge of her hipbone through the fabric, and she pushed against me.
"You're terrible at this," Maggie said as I pressed my forehead against hers. Her nimble fingers found my fly buttons. "I want him," she muttered against my mouth when the last one opened.
Hilda shouted something from downstairs, but Maggie just rolled her eyes and bit my chin. "Ignore her."
Her dress sagged open where I'd undone it, revealing the lace edge of the new bra I bought for her yesterday. I traced along it with my thumb, feeling the heat of her skin beneath, while she made small, impatient noises.
Her hands were already inside my trousers, fingers curling around me with a grip that was almost too tight. "Maggie…" I started, but she cut me off by forcing her tongue in my mouth and shifting her weight until I could feel her thigh pressing against mine through my clothes.
"Shush," she echoed my earlier word, breath hot against my neck. The bedsprings groaned as she pushed me back onto the thin mattress, her dress sliding off one shoulder. She didn't seem to care – just hitched the skirt up higher and straddled me with a smirk that went to my core.
The dress slipped off Maggie’s shoulders, pooling around her waist before she let go of my shaft and yanked it over her head in one impatient motion. It landed in a crumpled heap near the bedpost, forgotten.
My hands found her breasts through the lace of the bra – still new and unwashed. She gasped when my thumbs brushed over her nipples, already hard beneath the material. Maggie’s hips ground down against mine as her bra straps slid down her arms.
"Bloody hell, Ken," she breathed as she rocked against me.
I told her, “Take it off."
Maggie smirked wickedly as she leaned back just enough to reach behind herself, fingers working the clasp of her bra. It sprang loose, and she let it slide down her arms before she tossed it towards the dress with a flick of her wrist. Her pale breasts bounced free, nipples taut, and she shivered when the cool air hit them.
"There. Happy now?" she murmured, but her voice cracked as my hands cupped her bare skin, thumbs circling her nipples. She hissed through her teeth, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
Downstairs, a kettle whistled, sharp and shrill, but neither of us paid it any attention.
Maggie's body curved forward; her warm nipple brushed my lips, its areola puckered tight. She exhaled sharply when I took it into my mouth, her fingers tightening in my hair as I swirled my tongue over the peak.
A shudder ran through her, and she pressed herself harder against me, her other hand gripping the headboard for balance. I felt her thighs tremble and roll in slow circles against my loins.
My fingers slipped beneath the damp lace of her knickers, tracing the swell of her buttocks before sliding down and under, finding her heat, and flesh slick with sweat.
Her hips jerked and ground against my wrist as my fingers found her folds, already wet and trembling.
"Oh," she gasped, her thighs clamped around my hand like a vice. "Remember what I taught you. Make me come, Ken"
My fingers pressed up, and then two were inside her. She rocked against my hand, her hips moving in short, urgent circles as my thumb found her little bud, just above where my fingers disappeared into her. Her breath came in sharp, shuddering bursts, every muscle tensed as she ground down harder, her free hand fisted in the bedsheets.
"Don't stop," she whimpered, her forehead pressed against mine as her movements grew erratic, and her whole body trembled with the effort of holding on.
The bedsprings screeched from her writhing, and Maggie let out a groan against my mouth as my fingers curled inside her just the way she taught me.
"Fuck, yes…" she moaned as her thighs started to shake. I felt her clench around my fingers, her wetness soaking my wrist as she came with a choked cry, her body collapsing forward onto my chest, her skin slick with sweat, and her breath hot against my neck.
“Oh, God, yes,” she cried. "Ken, do it again."
Maggie's demand was like a half-sob, uttered before she fully caught her breath. Her thigh muscles fluttered against my knuckles as I resumed the rhythm – slow circles with my thumb while my fingers curled just so.
Her hips jerked once more in erratic, desperate little thrusts, her body oversensitive but hungry; her hands scrabbled at the damp sheets for purchase. "Yes, like… like that…" she gasped, her voice breaking as her thighs trembled violently around my wrist, her climax fast and sharp, while her breath came in ragged pants against my cheek.
I looked at her above me. Her words thrilled me. "Oh, you are a fast learner." Then she smiled wickedly. "Now I'm going to have you, Ken."
Maggie's weight shifted as she lifted herself just enough to drag my trousers down, the waist button forced open as she pulled them down to my ankles. The cool air hit my skin for a few seconds before she sank back down, taking me inside her in a slow, deliberate movement. A gasp of pleasure escaped her lips as she seated herself fully, her body tight and warm around me. Her hands braced on my chest, fingers dug in slightly, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
"There," she murmured with satisfaction. She didn't move, just held still, her muscles squeezing me in pulses as she savoured the feeling of penetration. She smiled tenderly for a heartbeat before she rocked forward and set a slow, deep rhythm that made my vision blur with intense waves of pleasure. When she leaned closer, her breasts brushed my chest with each movement.
"You like that?" Her lips hovered just above mine, her hips never still. I nodded, unable to speak, and she laughed. "Good."
Maggie shifted her weight, her movement more urgent, her thighs tense as she chased her pleasure. Her crooked fingers grasped the sheets beside my head as she rode harder, her body slick with sweat, hair stuck to her skin in damp curls.
I knew she was going to come again, and when her mouth stretched open, and her guttural groan reverberated around the room, I knew she was there. But it was the iron grip of her muscles on my shaft that sent me over the edge, my fingers pressed into her waist as I shot into her.
She slumped on me, her breath hot and ragged against my neck, her heartbeat thundering against mine, our flesh stuck together with sweat.
We kissed, long and slow, gentle flicks of our tongues, her saliva draining into my mouth. Eventually, I rolled us over, lying side by side, kissing, petting, and stroking. I wanted to be there forever, but rupture was coming, and it could not be avoided. I had to tell her. “Maggie, the ship will sail early Wednesday. I will miss you so much. Three months before I’m back. Will you wait for me?”
I stroked her damp hair tenderly and saw the teardrops form in her eye and run down the side of her nose. She sniffled, almost sobbing her reply, “Yes, Ken, I will wait.”
“When can I see you next, perhaps tomorrow afternoon? I’m off, but I have to work all night.”
“Can’t do it; I’ve got a job all week.”
“Tuesday evening, about seven, on board? Our last chance.”
Maggie nodded, then buried her face under my chin, and I felt her body wracked with sobs. I knew then that she was mine forever.
._.
Wednesday at six, I dragged myself out of my bunk and pulled on my working uniform before joining the third officer on the bridge for the pre‑departure checks. An hour later, the last lines were cast off, and as the tugs eased us clear of the berth, the propeller deep beneath my feet rumbled into life.
From the flying bridge aft, I had a perfect view of the docks and the cut ahead, its bascule bridge already raised for our passage. Then I saw her – a bright splash of yellow on the mole. Maggie, in the dress I’d bought her, was waving as if the whole world depended on it. I raised my arms high and signalled back, and as the ship slid past her position, I blew kiss after kiss until the steelwork of the bridge swallowed her from sight.
Only then did I turn toward the lock and the brown, restless water of the Mersey. My mind drifted to the voyage ahead – my first glimpse of the spice island of Zanzibar, of Dar es Salaam, of Mombasa. Yet my heart felt secure, anchored in Maggie’s love.
