Home Is Where the Heart Is (3 page)

O
ver the coming days and weeks, Cathie continued to work hard at the factory as well as take care of the baby. She also busied herself with cleaning and tidying the house from top to bottom, much to her mother’s irritation as she was moved from room to room, not offering to even lift a duster to help. Buying a pot of brown paint from the ironmonger, Cathie gave all the doors a quick coat, hoping the landlord would not object. But, as they’d been bombed out of their own home, and were now renting in a ramshackle street in a rather poor area of Castlefield, Cathie was anxious for the house to look as respectable as possible when Alex arrived home. She felt rather pleased with the result, and proud of herself for having picked up quite a few skills over these last years.

‘It costs very little to at least be clean,’ said her Aunt Evie, not for the first time when Cathie popped in to fill her in on what was happening, and ask her advice. Her aunt too had suffered a horrible war, not least by the fact her children had been evacuated.

‘Your Uncle Donald hasn’t been demobbed yet, although
no longer a POW. He’s undergoing some help, or so I’m told, by the Resettlement Service or whatever they call themselves. But my little ones will be home soon too,’ she said, cuddling baby Heather on her lap. ‘Not that they’ll be little any more, and goodness knows what they’ll think when they see me again. I’ve turned into a real old crow.’

‘Don’t be silly, they adore you,’ Cathie said with a smile. Evie, her father’s younger sister, was very maternal, the kind of mother Cathie would have loved to have. ‘So when do you think I should tell Alex about little Heather?’

Her aunt considered the question with a frown. ‘Not easy to answer. Judge your moment when it feels right. Believe in yourself, sweetie.’

It felt like good advice, and surely her courage and sense of independence had increased throughout this long war. Or had it all vanished again with the loss of dear Sal? Uncertainty and panic swelled in her, which yet again had to be quelled as Cathie resolutely devoted the entire afternoon to baking a Christmas cake, and thinking positive thoughts about the future. It was admittedly rather plain but at least it had real fruit in it and not just prunes, as was the case last year. Wrapping it in greaseproof paper and storing it in a cake tin, she hid it safely away on a top shelf in the larder where Rona wouldn’t find it. Next, she set about making paper chains and tiny Chinese-type lanterns, which she strung up around the front parlour.

‘We need the house to look good as Father Christmas will be here soon,’ Cathie explained to the baby, as the pair
of them sat together on the rug. Heather’s soft little lips pursed in concentration as she tried to help by flicking bits of paper about, some of them sticking to her little fingers, which made Cathie laugh. She’d also bought a tree, which she now decorated with home-made Christmas crackers, a few baubles and pipe-cleaner dolls dressed in scraps of wool and cotton that she and Sal had made when they were small.

Stepping back to admire her efforts with a glow of satisfaction, in her mind’s eye she could see Sal standing on a stool as she fixed a fairy to the top of the tree. As the elder of the two, her sister had always insisted on this being her job, carried out when the tree had been fully decorated. The thought that this would be the first Christmas without Sal, filled Cathie with fresh pain. Brushing away her tears, she strived not to dwell on past memories.

‘What do you think?’ she asked her mother, keeping her voice deliberately bright and with a cheerful smile on her face.

Rona gave a careless shrug. ‘The tree’s a bit small but I expect it will do. But all them decorations seem like a lot of effort for just the two of us.’

‘The war is over, and there won’t be just the two of us. Alex is coming home, remember, and it’s Heather’s first Christmas. I mean to make it very special.’ Cathie fully intended to honour Sal’s memory by giving her precious child a wonderful time. Even if Heather was only a baby and had never even heard of Father Christmas, Cathie had already found her a stocking to hang up, and bought a few
small toys to put in it, together with a few jelly babies and chocolate creams.

‘Don’t expect me to look after the nipper over Christmas, even if your boyfriend does get home in time. I have my own plans, and it doesn’t include going back to child-minding and washing nappies. I had my fill of all that with you two.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of expecting you to,’ Cathie caustically replied, feeling this comment proved what a neglectful mother Rona had been. ‘I did wonder though, if you would be willing to babysit for
one
evening at least, so that we could go out for a meal together to celebrate his homecoming. I haven’t seen Alex in nearly two years.’

‘I’d need to meet him first, to give my approval. Why don’t you ask him to join us for tea one day, or Sunday dinner perhaps?’

Whenever he’d walked her home after they’d been out on a date, he’d never actually stepped inside, claiming a reluctance to intrude upon her life. In reality it may well have been the lack of welcome from her mother. Now, despite them living in a much shabbier property, Cathie smiled with relief. ‘That would be lovely. I’ll do that. I’m quite certain that you’ll like him.’ She made to give her mother a kiss in gratitude, but Rona moved quickly away, as ever resisting any show of affection from her daughter, although she rarely refused a kiss from a man.

Fortunately, Cathie reminded herself, she no longer depended upon her mother for love, not now she had Alex,
and the baby. She ached with longing to see him again, but everything was ready: the goose ordered, mince tarts made, and having failed to find any icing sugar she’d coated the Christmas cake with a mock butter cream. Cathie had even treated herself to a new dress in Christmas rose red, and Davina had trimmed and styled her corkscrew curls for her. Half her personal savings were gone, but Cathie was delighted with all the preparations she’d made.

When later that day the postman delivered a second letter from Alex asking her to meet him at Victoria railway station at eleven o’clock the Sunday before Christmas, her heart turned over with happiness. She rushed to tell her friends at the very first opportunity.

‘So pleased for you,’ Brenda said, giving her a delighted hug.

‘How exciting. When does he arrive exactly?’ Davina coolly enquired.

Cathie read out the necessary details from her precious letter, without revealing his private comments to her. ‘I can hardly wait.’

Now her life would truly change for the better.

At the end of the week, as she clocked in as usual at the tyre factory to start her morning shift sharp at eight, she found a note from her boss. Answering his call to enter, she breezed into his office with a happy smile on her face,
her heart feeling as if it was bouncing with happiness. ‘You wanted to see me?’

Glancing up from the account sheet upon which he was working, he removed his spectacles and gave a brief nod. ‘I wish to thank all you ladies personally for the sterling work you’ve done throughout the war, and can now release you from those labours as the men are returning.’

Cathie stared at him in disbelief. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The war is over, if you haven’t noticed. The soldiers, sailors and airmen are all coming home and need their jobs back. So while you women have done splendid work, you are now free to return to your domestic duties.’

Her mind in a whirl at this unexpected announcement, the last thing she’d wanted to hear right now with a baby to feed, Cathie couldn’t think of a polite way to protest, however much she might feel the need to defend her own rights. Women who had refused to take a war job back in 1941 had been threatened with prison. She’d been happy to do her bit, young as she’d been at the time. She’d loved her work, the independence it had brought her, as well as the companionship of other women. ‘I do appreciate what you say, boss. Of course fighting men have the right to get their jobs back, but do women need to be dismissed entirely in order to achieve that? How are we supposed to survive without a wage coming in?’ she asked, attempting to sound reasonable.

He gave her a wry smile. ‘I hear you’ll be married soon,
Cathie, so what’s the problem? A woman’s role is to produce babies and support her husband.’

‘And no doubt clean fire grates, knit baby clothes and mend socks,’ she said, with a sharp edge to her tone. ‘But what if I have no wish to be confined to the kitchen sink?’

He seemed to find this remark so amusing he laughed out loud. ‘That is something you must discuss with your dearly beloved. I’m sure hubby will take you out from time to time. And, as it’s Friday, the job ends today, so don’t forget to collect your final wages and card on your way out.’ Having said his piece, he put his spectacles back on and returned to the task of adding up company profits, which might well drop now they’d be paying higher men’s wages.

Walking back to her bench in a complete daze, Cathie felt tears prick her eyes. How on earth would she cope without any money coming in? It felt as if a whole different world was opening up before her, one where she would have very little say over her own future. But once she’d listened to the woes of the other women, many of them war widows with children of their own to feed, she swallowed her own worries and said very little. She, at least, would have a loving husband to depend upon, one who would be home in just over a week.

‘How on earth can I continue to pay the rent without a wage coming in?’ Brenda snapped, also complaining bitterly about being sacked. ‘I certainly have no wish to return to my late husband’s family home out on the Pennines.’

Judging by the expression on her friend’s face, Cathie
thought it wise not to ask for an explanation on that point, and instead gave her a consoling hug. ‘I’m sure if we look hard enough, we’ll find other work, even if it’s only part-time. We do have considerable experience at our fingertips, after all. Surely all these years of hard work we’ve done must count for something?’

‘I do hope so. We should have seen this coming, of course. Those brave soldiers do deserve their jobs back. I’d just never got around to thinking how that might affect me. Nor did I expect it to happen so suddenly.’

‘Me neither. A little warning might have helped, or better still an alternative offer of a job here in the factory, one that involved us in work we know so well.’

According to the general conservation buzzing around them, other factories were likewise laying off women workers, so a new job might not be easy to find. And thinking of the busy week ahead in preparation for Christmas, helping with a charity event at the local Co-operative Society, and with a goose to pay for, Cathie attempted to mentally calculate how much money she had left to live on.

As for Alex’s homecoming, her feelings were becoming increasingly muddled. Much as she longed to see him, she really had no wish to be dependent on her fiancé from the outset. In any case, war might have badly affected him too, and she had no wish to add to his distress by expecting him to be entirely responsible for earning all the money they would inevitably need. It was necessary to be practical as well as supportive and loving.

The rest of the day passed largely in gloomy silence and, as the factory clock chimed six strokes, the women packed their bags, collected their wages and walked out grim-faced, into what they’d believed would be a brave new peaceful world, and now wasn’t looking quite as good as they’d hoped.

‘Have you considered asking for a job here at the Co-op?’ This question came from Steve Allenby, an old friend who had returned from the war some time ago with serious injuries. Cathie was helping him to organise a Christmas concert in the Co-operative Society rooms above the shop, and had casually mentioned the fact that she’d lost her job, although she felt she really had no right to complain too much. A V1 rocket had exploded close to an airfield where Steve was working in Holland. It had so badly damaged his leg an amputation had been necessary. He now had an artificial limb on his right leg from the knee down, and walked with a slight limp. He was making a good recovery, if still suffering from pain and post-war traumas, looking even thinner and more raw-boned than when he was a scraggy kid. But then losing a leg was far more serious than being dismissed from a job, however worrying that might be for her.

In between blowing up balloons that were piling up all around them, she turned the idea over in her head, a little hope lighting up within. Could that be a possibility? She
wondered. Cathie knew that in the past the Co-operative movement had supported workers during strikes, as well as throughout the war, keeping tally sheets for folk who couldn’t settle their household bill till their next wage was paid. Whether they would be willing to offer her a job was another matter entirely.

‘I’m not intending to work here for ever,’ Steve was saying. ‘I do have other plans. But Cyril Leeson, the manager, generously kept my job open and I’m proud to be employed by a business that has been in operation since the mid-nineteenth century and an important part of the community. They are expert at juggling prices to suit customers’ needs, give dividends, and run holiday clubs in which money can be saved for Wakes Week. Generally a week in Blackpool, as we know.’ He laughed.

‘I do approve of their Christmas club, which has helped me to finance this expensive season by saving up in it week after week,’ she said, thinking of her dream to make this the best Christmas ever for Alex. ‘Unfortunately, my skills are more concerned with checking tyres.’ She gave a dry little laugh. ‘Can’t see that being of any use slicing bacon, butter and cheese, let alone keeping track of people’s accounts. I’d be hopeless.’

‘Probably you would at first, but with a bit of effort you might at last learn to count, and even add up.’

‘Cheeky!’ she snapped, playfully punching him on the shoulder.

He laughed as he ducked, in case she tried again. ‘I
trained as a junior instructor in the army and eventually became a trainer myself, doing a lot of work with small arms. What has that got to do with cheese? You’d soon get the hang of it, Cathie. It’s plain to see that you’ve grown much more confident and capable as a result of this war.’