Orphans of the Storm (27 page)
‘I dunno,’ Debbie said. Outside, it was a warm night, but in this place the cold combined with a sort of stuffiness which was most unpleasant. ‘But they won’t do anything until the shelter’s full and they’ve closed the fire curtain. Gosh, how many folk are they going to cram in?’ A large, untidy woman with a baby in her arms had entered the shelter just as the fire curtain was drawn across, indicating that no one else could come in. She was looking round her in a rather helpless manner and Debbie nudged Gwen. ‘Shove up,’ she muttered. ‘That old lady’s holding a baby; she’s got to sit down.’ Both girls shunted along as she spoke and Debbie tugged at the woman’s filthy black skirt. ‘Sit next to me,’ she whispered. ‘If the marshal sees you’re standing, he might tell you to move on.’
The woman sat down hastily and the baby began to mutter. It was not a tiny new baby but looked to Debbie to be about six months old, and when it started to whimper she addressed the woman. ‘Have you a bottle for your baby? It might find a bottle soothing. I don’t know much about babies, but I do know they have to be fed every four or five hours.’
‘I ain’t got nothing for it,’ the old woman said crossly. She turned and glared at Debbie out of small black eyes, beady as boot buttons, and Debbie took a good look at her face. She was clearly very old, but her skin was tanned and leathery and, Debbie thought, extremely dirty. She had a large hooked nose and a thin-lipped mouth, and when she spoke Debbie saw that she was toothless. She turned back to the baby for a moment, shifting it uncomfortably in her arms, as though she were not used to holding a child. Then she turned back to Debbie. ‘Know me agin?’ she asked nastily.
Debbie felt her cheeks grow hot. She knew the old woman was right and she had, indeed, been staring. She looked away quickly. ‘Sorry, it’s – it’s just that you obviously aren’t the baby’s mother. I just wondered . . .’ She abandoned what she had been about to say, changing it to: ‘I’m sure if you ask the shelter marshal, he’ll find some milk or something for the baby. They’re very good as a rule and often have something hidden away for an emergency.’ The old woman sniffed, but presently the baby began to cry in earnest. And having shaken it twice, in a most unfriendly manner – Debbie was reminded of the pig baby and the Duchess in
Alice
– she thrust the baby into Debbie’s arms, saying crossly: ‘If you’re so concerned with the little bugger, you can hang on to it whiles I have a word with the marshal. I can’t abide bloody kids, and if it starts bellering I won’t be responsible for me actions.’
Alice
– she thrust the baby into Debbie’s arms, saying crossly: ‘If you’re so concerned with the little bugger, you can hang on to it whiles I have a word with the marshal. I can’t abide bloody kids, and if it starts bellering I won’t be responsible for me actions.’
She stomped off to the far end of the shelter where the marshal sat behind a small gate-legged table, writing in a ledger, and Gwen took advantage of her absence to lean across and take a good look at the baby. ‘Ain’t she the prettiest little thing?’ she said softly. ‘I don’t reckon she’s any kin to the old witch; what d’you think?’
Debbie, who had already examined the baby closely and noticed the blue eyes and the mossy down on its small round head, so different from the old woman’s snapping black eyes and greasy black locks, agreed. ‘If you ask me, the old ’un’s a gypsy and I reckon she stole the baby out of a pram and means to sell it to someone who wants a child badly,’ she said. ‘Did you see the way she shook the poor little mite? If she hadn’t handed it to me and waddled off, I’d have told her she was no fit person to be in charge of a kid. When she comes back, I may say something.’
‘I don’t think you should. If you start a ruckus down here, someone’s going to get turned out, and—’
An enormous explosion from outside cut across her words. Gwen stopped speaking for a moment, then put her mouth close to Debbie’s ear. ‘Remember, we can’t just get up and walk out,’ she shouted. ‘Save whatever you want to say to her until the All Clear goes; agreed?’
It was still too noisy to hear much so Debbie just nodded. She knew Gwen was right. Once or twice, rows and quarrels had started in their shelter but wiser counsels usually prevailed and folk sank their differences.
When the old woman returned bearing a small celluloid cup, Debbie held out the baby, expecting her to take it, but she shook her head. ‘I ain’t gorra bottle an’ nor’s that bleedin’ marshal,’ she said gruffly. ‘I dare say it ain’t never drunk out of a cup in its whole life, so it’ll need two of us to get this down it.’ She seated herself and pushed the cup, which proved to be half full of conny-onny and water, against the baby’s mouth just as another explosion rent the air, and actually made the benches tilt.
The baby, finding the hard rim of the cup suddenly crashed against its soft little lips, began to weep in earnest and Debbie snatched the mug from the old woman, glaring. ‘I’d better feed it myself, as you don’t seem too handy at it,’ she said, biting back the much more honest remark she would have liked to make. She cradled the baby softly against her breast, rocking it a little and holding the cup gently close and tilting it so that only a tiny amount of liquid entered the baby’s open, crying mouth. ‘There you are, my little love, a lovely warm drink which the kind marshal has made specially for you.’ She turned to look at the old woman. ‘What’s its name?’ she enquired baldly. ‘Come to that, I don’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl.’
The old woman hesitated, looking unsure of herself for the first time. ‘What do it matter? A baby’s a baby when all’s said and done,’ and now there was a distinct whine in her voice. ‘It ain’t mine – even you must have guessed that much – and I disremember whether it’s a boy or a girl. Kids is all the same to me.’
Debbie might have retorted sharply but at that moment the baby’s crying ceased, the big blue eyes opened, and the tiny thing began to drink, gulping and coughing a little, but definitely taking the mixture which Debbie was trickling into its mouth, and clearly both enjoying it and anxious for more.
The sight of the baby’s eager little face and, it must be admitted, the cessation of its wails gave Debbie a very real thrill. She had always loved babies, had longed for a little brother or sister, but she did not even have the satisfaction of having younger cousins, and now she determined that she would look after this baby until the All Clear went. She said as much to the old woman, half expecting a dusty answer, but instead the first smile she had seen crossed the woman’s face. ‘Aye, that’ll be best. I can see it’s more at home wi’ you than it were wi’ me,’ the old woman said. She added, almost apologetically: ‘I didn’t know it were hungry else I might ha’ looked round for a bottle or summat, but I gorra clean nappy . . . it were hung over the side of the cradle.’
Debbie, cooing over the baby as it finished the last drop of milk, said nothing to this, but Gwen leaned forward eagerly. ‘Are you the baby’s gran?’ she asked. ‘Else I don’t see how you come to get the clean nappy off of the cradle.’
The old woman’s eyes had been closed as she leaned back against the wall, but they snapped open at Gwen’s words. ‘Mind your own bleedin’ business, you cocky little tart,’ she said, and Gwen was so shocked that she said nothing more, whereupon the old woman closed her eyes and leaned back again, taking up even more room than she had before. And then, with astonishing rapidity, she began to snore and to lean against Debbie’s shoulder. Debbie tried to move away, for the old woman was heavy, and presently succeeded in extricating herself. Then, with the baby in her arms and Gwen beside her, she made a sort of nest of the blankets and the three of them cuddled up in it, trying to ignore the horrendous racket from outside.
Astonishingly, the old woman continued to sleep heavily. Her mouth fell open, her head fell sideways, and she snored and snored, now and then snuffling wetly, but not waking up even when a shock reverberated through the shelter.
‘They’re gettin’ it real bad out there,’ Gwen said apprehensively, her round brown eyes going towards the roof of the shelter as though she were trying to see through the solid concrete blocks. ‘Mind you, every night since this lot started we’ve come out in the morning expecting to find nothing left standing, but there always is.’ She looked appealingly at Debbie. ‘It can’t go on for ever, can it? They’ll get sick of bombing Liverpool soon, surely? I’m warning you, Deb, if it goes on like this I’m going to tell ’em at work that I’m sick and go and stay with Mam and the kids for a few days.’
Debbie settled the baby, which seemed to be sleeping soundly, more comfortably in the crook of her arm, and put her other arm round Gwen. They had hoped to get some sleep but it was too noisy and there was too much going on around them. Women were leading children to and from the curtained-off area at the end of the shelter, and someone had started a sing-song in a brave attempt to take folks’ minds off what was happening above ground. Some women, clearly better prepared than their sisters, were cutting chunks off homemade loaves, spreading the slices with margarine, and handing them out to friends and relatives. Debbie squeezed Gwen’s shoulders comfortingly and put her mouth to her friend’s ear. ‘I might join you at that,’ she said. ‘An’ I reckon my mam might come as well. She’s worked all the hours God sends on those bleedin’ wards; it’s time she had a break. Uncle Max was telling her so only yesterday, and for once I think he was talking sense. Nursing is hard physical work, lifting great heavy patients, lugging them up in bed when it’s time for a meal, carting great trays of food and medicine around . . . and then all the cleaning and sterilising and that, as well as running the house. She could do with a break all right.’
Gwen nodded vigorously just as another bomb came screaming to earth nearby, and both girls clapped their hands over their ears as the roar of its impact and the crash of falling masonry made the shelter shake once more. ‘That were a close one,’ Gwen muttered. She leaned her head against Debbie’s shoulder and Debbie realised for the first time that her friend was white and exhausted. She looked round at the people nearest her and saw that they, too, were beginning to show the strain. Many of the faces were grey; she was beginning to grow used to washing off a film of dust every time she entered her home from the streets outside. I reckon the whole of Liverpool could do with a break, if we aren’t all to be ill, she told herself. I know everyone says London has had it worse but what could be worse than this?
In her arms the baby stirred, then snuggled against her once more. It was wrapped in a ragged pink shawl, and for the first time Debbie really looked into its small fair face, noting the long lashes and the clear pale skin with the faintest flush of rose on its cheeks. The shawl the child was wrapped in might be ragged but it was clean, and what Debbie could see of the gown beneath it – which was not much – was clean as well. Someone, and it’s not that nasty old woman, is taking good care of you, Debbie told it silently, then she turned to Gwen. ‘I wonder what we ought to do, Gwenny? When we get out of here, I mean. If the old woman is a gypsy, and she does look like one, then I don’t think we ought to hand the baby back to her, do you? I mean, if she stole it, which seems quite likely, we should try to find its rightful parents.’
She had spoken softly, or as softly as one could speak against the noise from outside, for the ack-ack battery stationed nearby was seldom silent for long, but nevertheless she had been overheard. An elderly man lying on the floor, wrapped in his blanket and cradling a dirty old sack in both arms, cocked a bright eye at her. ‘You talkin’ about Miz O’Shea? She ain’t no gypsy, though I’ll grant you she looks like one. When she were younger, she used to wear a pair o’ them great big hoop earrings because she wanted to look mysterious like, but she ain’t no gypsy, not really. She used to sell flowers in Clayton Square but then she reckoned she was too old to gerrup there an’ back each day, so she got ’erself a bit of a house in one of them courts off the Scottie, an’ let rooms.’ He sat up and jerked a thumb at the child in Debbie’s arms. ‘That’ll be a kid from one of them dockside prossies what she’s took in,’ he said knowledgeably. ‘In the old days, sailors used to come to her house for a bit o’ fun whenever they had a few coppers to spare. But the scuffers got on to her, made her life a misery she said, so now she only has three or four gals livin’ in the house and they has to conduc’ their business elsewhere.’ He chuckled coarsely. ‘I reckon they’re the only people what are glad of the blackout ’cos they can earn a bob or two in any dark alley or back jigger these days. Why, even a scuffer thinks twice about flashin’ a torch where Jerry might see it an’ drop a bomb on ’im.’
The two girls leaned against one another, trying to sleep, but of course it was impossible. A man with an accordion struck up a cheerful, jigging tune and a small girl, no more than three or four, began to dance. Debbie was watching her, laughing and clapping, though with some difficulty because the baby slumbered still in the curve of her arm, when Gwen nudged her. ‘Debbie, can you keep a secret?’
Debbie stared at her. What a daft question! She and Gwen had been pals ever since she started at Daisy Street School. They had defended one another against would-be bullies, helped each other with their homework, walked to and from school with their arms linked whilst they discussed the doings of each day. They had cut and curled each other’s hair, criticised each other’s clothing, slept in each other’s beds. They had, in fact, lived in one another’s pockets, and, until this moment, Debbie had thought she knew Gwen as well as she knew herself. Yet here was Gwen intimating that she had a secret to share; what on earth could it be? Why, even now that they were almost grown-up and working in the factory, she and Gwen shared everything: thoughts, feelings and desires. So the face that Debbie turned to her friend was astonished as well as curious. ‘Can I keep a secret? How can you ask such a question? Did I ever tell my mam that it were you who caught your skipping rope round my ankle and brought me crashing to the ground so’s I cracked a bone in me wrist? When you were milk monitor, same as me, and tripped on the loose tile in the cloakroom, did I tell Miss Watkins which one of us went over first? Course I never.’
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