Daughters of Liverpool (10 page)

As she and the boy had turned into Emily’s own road, she had heard a thin reedy elderly female voice calling out, ‘Tiddles, where are you?’

Emily’s father had had electricity installed in the house at the earliest opportunity, and its welcoming light banished the shadows from the hallway.

Gently pushing the boy in front of her, Emily headed for the kitchen where mercifully the Aga was still on and the kitchen warm.

She had expected the boy to be overawed by the house, but instead he seemed to take its comforts for granted.

‘You can sit on here whilst I stoke up the Aga and put the kettle on,’ Emily told him, pulling a chair out from the table but removing the cushion from it before letting him sit on it. ‘But no moving off it, mind,’ she warned him. ‘I’m not having you messing up my house, filthy like you are.’

He was trying to stifle a yawn, his face white with fatigue, and Emily had to harden her heart against the pathetic sight he made.

‘I know you’re tired,’ she told him, ‘but I’m not
having you sleeping between my nice clean sheets until you’ve had a bath.’

He still hadn’t spoken, but he was listening to her and watching her.

Quickly Emily banked up the Aga. She was tired and hungry, but she couldn’t eat without feeding the boy as well and he certainly couldn’t eat using her clean china in the filthy state he was in, so she would have to wait until she had made sure he was bathed and clean.

‘Come on,’ she told him. ‘Come with me.’

In the airing cupboard she found some old towels that she kept for the theatre because of all the greasepaint that Con managed to get on them. It never washed out properly, no matter what instructions she gave them at the laundry.

‘Here’s the bathroom,’ she told the boy, opening the door to show him. ‘I’ll run you a bath and then you’ll take off your clothes and get in it and give yourself a good scrub.’

Normally Emily stuck rigidly to the letter of the law, but the boy was so dirty he was going to need two baths, not just one, and she certainly wasn’t going to let him put those filthy clothes back on. He’d have to sleep in one of Con’s old shirts tonight.

It was gone midnight before Emily finally climbed into her own bed. The boy, bathed, fed and wearing an old flannel shirt that trailed on the floor behind him, was tucked up in bed in the spare room with a hot-water bottle to keep him warm. There’d been a black rim round the bath like she’d kept coal in
it, and when she’d washed his clothes, his vest had fallen apart in her hands, it was that full of holes. Poor little mite. She’d been surprised to see what a nice-looking lad he was once he was clean, but it was beginning to worry her that he wouldn’t speak. Could it be that he was deaf and dumb? There’d been a girl when she’d been at school whose sister had been like that, and her family had made signs to her when they wanted to tell her something, Emily remembered.

She yawned tiredly and reached out to switch off the bedside light, only realising as she did so that Con hadn’t come in. Well, his absence was no loss to her.

It was half-past five in the morning and the all clear had finally sounded. Wearily, Jean woke the twins whilst Sam gathered up their things. Around them in the air-raid shelter their neighbours were also stirring and throwing off the dark fear and dread of the night. They had survived, although just how much of their city had also managed to survive after the pasting it had had from the Luftwaffe remained to be seen, Sam told Jean as they walked tiredly home.

The kitchen felt warm and comforting after the chill of the shelter. Jean had just finished washing up from their tea when the air-raid siren had gone off, and the dishes were still on the draining board.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she told Sam as she stifled a weary yawn.

‘You look done in, love. Why don’t you go up and have an hour in bed?’ Sam suggested.

‘I can never sleep in the shelter. It doesn’t seem proper somehow, sleeping when you’re with all them other people, even if there is a war on and they are our neighbours.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Sam agreed. ‘It will be all hands to the pumps for us today, clearing up the mess Hitler’s left us with. I’ll go up and have a bit of a wash and then I’d better get down to the yard. We won’t be able to see how much damage has been done until it’s properly light, of course.’

‘I just hope that Katie’s all right.’

‘She’ll be safe in one of the shelters, love.’

The kettle had boiled. Jean reached for it, warming the pot and then sparingly spooning some fresh tea leaves into it before adding some of the tea leaves she had kept from the previous day, to give it a bit more strength.

The resultant brew wasn’t the cup of tea she longed for but it was better than nothing and, more important, it was all that they could have. Not that Jean intended to complain. What did she have to complain about, after all, when both her son and her daughter were alive and well and living close enough to home for her to be able to see them regularly? Others were not so fortunate. There was more than one family in their road now that had lost someone. One of the other women in Jean’s WVS group had arrived at their weekly meeting earlier in the week with red-rimmed eyes, explaining that her son, who was fighting in the desert, had been reported as missing in action. It made Jean’s heart contract just to think of what she was going through.

The all clear had sounded. The two hundred or so dancers who had braved the Luftwaffe to dance
the night away together, and in doing so had formed a bond in the way that young people do, began to shake hands if they were male, and exchange hugs if they were female, relieved that they were now free to leave and yet at the same time unwilling to part from one another.

A standing ovation had been given to the band for keeping them dancing, and Mr Munro had stood up and thanked both the band and the dancers.

‘He’s got another saxophone player coming to audition tomorrow,’ Eric told Katie as he packed away his instrument. She’d gone over to say goodbye to him and she didn’t want to seem rude by rushing off when he plainly wanted to chat.

Katie smiled and nodded.

Luke scowled as he watched her smiling at the musician. She was pretty pally with him on the strength of one night’s acquaintanceship, but then her sort were like that, as he well knew from Lillian. They excelled at making a chap believe they thought he was the best thing out and then making him look a fool. Well, that was never going to happen to him again.

As they left the Grafton in the chilly darkness of the December morning, coats over their dance dresses, groups of girls huddled together shivering and looking down at the glass-strewn pavement and road in distress.

‘There’s no way any buses are going to be coming down here,’ Carole told Katie unnecessarily. ‘We’ll have to walk.’ She looked dismayed. ‘And me wearing me only pair of dancing shoes. They’ll be cut to ribbons.’

‘We’ll just have to be very careful,’ Katie tried to comfort her.

The fair-haired private who had been dancing with Carole called out to his friends, ‘Come on, lads. Let’s see these girls safely on their way. They’ll never be able to walk over this lot. Allow me to offer you some transport, modom,’ he joked, putting on a fake ‘posh’ accent as he and another private made a seat with their crossed and joined hands, indicating that they would carry Carole over the worst of the broken glass.

She was giggling now, her dismay giving way to a dimpled smile as she settled herself into her ‘transport’.

Luke came out of the Grafton just in time to see what was going on and hear Carole’s giggles as his men carried her down the street.

Impatiently he strode after them, watched by Katie, who had held back from accepting an offer of her own transport, being naturally more self-conscious than her more exuberant and boisterous friend.

‘You’re in the British Army, you two, not the Christmas panto,’ Luke barked at the two young men, causing them to put Carole down and hang their heads.

‘We was only helping the girls across the worst of the broken glass, Corp,’ Andy defended his actions. ‘With them thin shoes they’re wearing their feet would be cut to ribbons.’

It was cold and Katie was tired and unwilling to hang around outside the Grafton any longer under the disapproving gaze of the corporal, whom she was quite sure now had taken a dislike to her.

With so many torches switched on it was easy enough for her to see the ground and pick her way carefully through the glass, or at least it would have been, if she hadn’t suddenly put her foot on such a smooth piece of glass that she was slipping on it.

Luke swung round as he heard Katie cry out, sprinting the few yards that separated them and reaching her just in time to catch her as she fell. Katie gasped as she was swung off her feet with so much force and speed that she fell against her rescuer’s chest and was obliged to lie there, winded, with her feet dangling above the ground.

He smelled of khaki and soap and clean male sweat. A funny unfamiliar sensation seemed to pierce her body, leaving her even more breathless than his forceful rescue.

Her ‘thank you’ was muffled and made uncomfortable by both her awareness of how much she wished it had been any soldier but this one who had saved her, and how much he himself must dislike having had to do so.

‘You can put me down now,’ she told him. She dare not move. He was of necessity holding her very tightly. He had no option, having rushed to save her, of course, but it was still a very intimate hold, given that they were strangers, and she was now clasped so tightly to his body that she could actually feel the hard muscles in his thighs against her own legs. Katie was glad that it was dark, because she knew that she was blushing. Which was so silly, given the situation. He already despised her enough without her making things even worse
by behaving like a silly overly dramatic type of girl who had to make a fuss about something that wasn’t really anything at all. Even so, she would be very glad to be standing on her own feet and not held so close to him. He must have very strong arms to hold her like that. She was panting and had to struggle slightly for breath, but he was not breathing fast at all. Well, not very much. She could feel his heart thudding quite heavily, though. And he still hadn’t put her down. In fact …

Katie gasped as she felt him starting to walk, still carrying her.

‘Put me down,’ she repeated.

‘Keep still,’ he warned her, ignoring her demand and carrying her across the worst of the broken glass to where Carole was standing watching.

How embarrassing. Katie felt so flushed and self-conscious. She had to thank him again, of course, after he had placed her on her feet, and she certainly didn’t welcome Carole’s giggled, ‘It looked ever so romantic, him carrying you like that. Just like something from
Gone With the Wind
,’ once they had left the men behind and were picking their way carefully through the mess.

It was nearly seven o’clock before Katie finally made it back to the Campions’. Jean welcomed her with open relief, clucking over her like a mother hen, as Katie explained what had happened.

‘We were safe enough but there’s been some dreadful damage, according to what I heard from the bus driver on my way back. There’s been fires
at Hatton Gardens and St John’s Market, and there’s been a church really badly burned.’

‘Did you hear that, Sam?’ Jean called out to her husband as he came into the kitchen to catch the tail end of Katie’s comment. ‘Katie says there’s been a fire in Hatton Gardens.’

Hatton Gardens being the headquarters of the Salvage Corps, Sam was naturally concerned to learn more.

‘I don’t have any details,’ Katie apologised. ‘It’s just what I heard. The law courts caught it as well.’

She had also heard that both Mill Road Hospital and the Royal had been hit, but she didn’t want to say so, knowing how anxious it would make Jean on her daughter Grace’s behalf, since Grace had probably been on duty.

‘If they were going for the docks, let’s hope that Derby House wasn’t hit. That’s where Grace’s Seb works,’ Jean told Katie. ‘You look fit to drop, love,’ she added. ‘I’m going to have an hour in bed myself before church so why don’t you go up and get some sleep too?’

‘I think I will,’ Katie agreed.

‘Liverpool was bombed so badly last night I feel we ought to offer our services to those WVS groups in the city who might need some extra pairs of hands.’

Bella yawned, and then shivered. It was cold standing here outside the church, even though she was wearing her new winter coat, with its fur collar, and a matching fur hat. The coat was honey-coloured, with a nipped-in waist and a flared
panelled skirt, and Bella knew that it suited her. The congregation at St Mark’s always dressed smartly, with the ladies discreetly vying with one another when it came to elegance and new hats. But then, as Bella’s mother was fond of saying, the congregation of St Mark’s did come from the best addresses in the area, and St Mark’s itself was very definitely High Church, with a locally renowned choir and a long waiting list of ladies willing to ‘do the church flowers’.

Bella would have avoided being collared by the leader of her mother’s WVS group, and slipped inside the church with her father before the woman had spotted them, but her mother had had other ideas.

Bella watched as members of the congregation continued to arrive: families with children dressed in Harris tweed coats and highly polished shoes, the girls’ hair in plaits and the boys’ slicked back, the mothers in good but sensible rather than stylish coats, and the fathers hurrying to catch up, having had to park their cars.

Bored and irritated, Bella yawned again. For one thing she had hardly had any sleep at all last night because of having to go into her dreary neighbour’s air-raid shelter, and for another, her mother had told her that her father had refused to increase her allowance.

How on earth was she supposed to manage? Her clothes were virtually in rags – not that there was much to buy anyway, but she couldn’t appear at any of the Tennis Club’s dances in last year’s frock. She had a certain position to maintain, after all.

She had told her mother this, of course, but instead of being sympathetic, her mother had actually asked her if she thought it was a good idea to go dancing when she was so very newly widowed.

‘A young woman in your position has to be very careful of her reputation, Bella,’ was what she had said, pursing her lips as she did so. ‘No one expects you to go into full traditional mourning, of course.’

‘Well, I should hope they don’t,’ Bella had agreed. ‘Not after the way Alan and those parents of his treated me. Shameful, it was. Anyway, people should be appreciative of me trying to make a bit of an effort and do my bit in wartime instead of crying all over the place.’

‘Well, yes, darling, of course,’ her mother had agreed. ‘No one’s saying you should do that, but to go dancing … Daddy feels that with his position on the council and everything that it would be much better if you didn’t go to the Tennis Club for a while. People talk, you know, Bella, and there was all that unpleasantness about Alan and that young woman.’

‘That wasn’t my fault,’ Bella had reminded her mother angrily.

If she didn’t watch it she was going to end up spending the rest of her life doing good works and attending boring WVS meetings, and that would not suit her at all.

To her relief her mother finally ended her conversation. Tucking her arm through Vi’s, Bella headed for the warmth of the church. They were almost
the last of the congregation to go in, and they had to squeeze past other worshippers to reach Bella’s father.

Everything about St Mark’s was rich, from the High Church smell of incense to the organ and the scarlet and white of the choristers. Even the kneeling pads were deep soft velvet – a bequest from a member of the congregation, like the prayer and hymn books.

When you said you worshipped at St Mark’s, everyone knew you were ‘someone’.

Jean might have told herself that she would go and have an hour in bed to make up for the sleep she had lost, but of course she didn’t. For one thing she was worried about Sam, knowing the danger he would be in helping with the clearing-up operations; for another she was equally anxious about Luke and Grace, wondering how they had gone on.

When Katie arrived downstairs ahead of the twins, dressed to go to church, in her dark blue coat and her matching beret, Jean found herself warming even more to her billetee.

She couldn’t take Grace’s place, of course – Grace was her daughter – but Jean acknowledged that she was growing very fond of Katie.

The twins, as usual, had to be reminded several times that they were going to be late for the service before they finally came rushing down the stairs, their coats still not on.

‘Why can’t you two get ready on time?’ Jean scolded them, hurrying them into their bright red
hooded jackets, and then putting her own on – brown to go with her best skirt and twinset, and with a really smart beaver lamb collar and a matching hat – another sale bargain from Lewis’s. Jean felt a bit guilty sometimes being able to have things that were so smart, thanks to Grace, when her neighbours had to make do with plainer things. But then Sam always liked to see her looking nice, and it was lovely to have a good coat.