Queen of the Mersey (18 page)

his wife, Iris, is expecting a baby any minute and Vera’s almost out of her mind with worry. I haven’t heard from Roddy in ages. But,’ she sighed, ‘that’s not all. Quite a few people we know have been killed. Remember Edgar Binns who collected the rent? And Jimmy Nicholls’s mum and dad died last night when a land mine fell on Salisbury Road.’

‘Oh, poor Jimmy!’ Queenie gasped. ‘He thought the world of his mam and dad. I’ll go and see him later.’

‘You might not be able to find him, dear. Lord knows where he is now. One other thing, not nearly so important, a letter came for you the other day from Caerdovey. It’s on the mantelpiece, probably from Gwen.’

The letter was from Gwen. She read it on her way to look for Jimmy.

My Dear Queenie,

I’m about to leave Caerdovey for Cardiff where I’ve got a job as a cook in a munitions factory. I’m very much looking forward to it.

There was an inquest into that business with Carl Merton. The verdict was ‘Accidental Death’. I was very relieved as Caerdovey was awash with all sorts of rumours. As for Mrs Merton, she disappeared one day and The Old School House is up for sale. Don’t answer this letter, lovey, and I won’t write to you again. I’m sure you’d sooner not think about that dreadful night and a letter from me will only remind you. You must try to put it to the back of your mind and not let it spoil your life. I hope everything goes well for you in the future, my dear Queenie. You deserve it.

With all my love,

Gwen Hughes

Jimmy was sitting on the heap of bricks that had used to be his home. His eyes lit up when he saw Queenie approach. ‘Hello, girl. You’re a sight for sore eyes and your arm’s looking good.’ The light quickly faded.

‘I’m sorry, Jimmy. Laura’s only just told me.’ She climbed the bricks and sat beside him, not caring about her pretty summer frock.

‘They’d have gone to the shelter, but me dad couldn’t manage the stairs – we lived on the top floor. Anyroad, some people in the shelter smoked like bloody chimneys and he couldn’t breathe. They always made me go though, else I’d be dead an’ all.’ He kicked morosely at a heap of rubble. ‘I’ll never buy me dad a car now.’

Queenie never knew what to say on these occasions. ‘Never mind, Jimmy’ just didn’t seem enough. ‘You can still buy one and take your Tess and Pete for rides,’ she said encouragingly. ‘I wouldn’t mind a ride meself.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘No, Jimmy.’

‘I always wanted to work in a garage, but they’ve mostly shut down, with there being no petrol, like. I’ve got this job with the Corpy clearing rubble. I wish I was old enough to join the Army. A chap in Chaucer Street joined and they’re teaching him to be a motor mechanic.’

‘One day, Jimmy.’ She patted his arm and asked if he’d like to come to the British Restaurant, which, according to Ben Tyler, had been set up in a giant tent in North Park. ‘Me and the girls are going. The food’s for free.’

‘Thanks, girl, but I’d sooner stay here.’ He turned over a brick. ‘I keep finding things. The other day I found me dad’s best tie, though he hadn’t worn it in years. Yesterday, I came across one of mam’s pearl earrings, not real pearl,’ he added hastily, just in case Queenie thought it might have been.

It was awful, having to go back to Southport, to Sea Shells and Mrs Palfrey, leaving behind a distraught Vera and an injured Laura who was determined to return to work next day. The only good thing about Southport was her job, which she loved.

Herriot’s was a haven of normality in a war-torn world. Once inside its doors, it was almost possible to forget about the horrible things happening outside. It was a comfortable cocoon, where the lights were always bright, there was carpet on the floor, never too much noise, and the atmosphere genteel.

The staff, mainly women, got on well. They felt as if they were all pulling together to keep the shop open for the people of Southport, even if it was only those able to afford Herriot’s sky-high prices.

Every morning, Kate on Cosmetics let Queenie have a quick dab behind the ears from one of the demonstration bottles of expensive scents, and Ellen on Hosiery would let the others know when a delivery of silk stockings had arrived. Mr Matthews had taken a shine to Queenie. ‘How’s our little governess today?’ he would enquire with a twinkling smile when he did the rounds before the shop opened and the staff were standing to attention behind their various counters.

‘Very well, Mr Matthews,’ Queenie would say demurely. She would always be grateful to Dr Hollis for suggesting she work in a shop.

Perhaps Hitler had decided Liverpool was on its knees and there was no need to attack it further. The city centre had been devastated, the docks, the lifeblood of the city, put out of action. But not for long! What Hitler didn’t know was that the morale of the inhabitants was sky high. The main services were speedily reconnected, accommodation found for those who had lost their homes and, in no time at all, it was business as usual on the docks. All over the country, people were willing to put up with the most appalling inconvenience if it meant winning the war.

There were a few more raids at the end of May, but nothing as severe as those during the first horrendous week. June and July saw only a handful of attacks and in August there were none at all. One Sunday, Laura came to Southport and announced she and Vera thought it was time they all came home.

‘You’ve been been away for two long years. Any longer, and we won’t know each other any more. Hester and Mary will be just in time for the new term at school and, Queenie, there’s no need to leave Herriot’s. I know how much you love it and you can go by train.’

‘When can we come?’ Hester was jumping up and down with excitement.

‘Why not today?’ Laura said with a smile. ‘Now we’ve made up our minds, there’s no point in putting it off another minute. Get your things packed, say goodbye to Mrs Palfrey, and we’ll be on our way.’

Chapter 6

‘Queenie!’ Laura shouted. ‘Which of the silk stockings on the rack are mine?’

‘The ones over the towel,’ Queenie shouted back. ‘Be careful how you pull them off.’

Laura came into the living room, wearing a smart blue frock with a sun-ray pleated skirt, the tops of the stockings held carefully between finger and thumb. ‘When Hester was a little baby, she wasn’t treated as tenderly as these.

I’m terrified they’ll snag.’

‘You look nice,’ Queenie remarked.

‘It’s only the second time I’ve been to a dance with Winnie and I’ve no idea why I’m bothering to look nice. I don’t want to “cop off with a feller” like she does, yet I suppose my pride would be hurt if no one asked me up. You don’t think I’m being unfaithful to Roddy, do you?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Would you mind if he went to a dance?’

‘I’ve thought about that, and I’m almost certain I wouldn’t mind a bit.’

Queenie raised her eyebrows. ‘Only almost?’

Laura frowned and looked a tiny bit doubtful, imagining Roddy with another woman in his arms. Her face cleared. ‘No, absolutely certain. I don’t expect him to behave like a monk.’

‘That’s all right then. Let’s hope he feels the same about you. I’m sure he does,’ she added quickly when Laura began to look anxious again.

‘Shall we put the decorations up tomorrow?’ Laura wondered aloud. ‘Or is it too soon? Christmas is a whole fortnight away.’

‘Me, I’d have them up all year round. I love decorations.’

‘But they’d lose their novelty. I think I’ll leave them for another week.’

Eric Tyler popped his head around the open door. ‘Can I borrow a tablespoon of sugar?’

‘Only if you lend us a tablespoon of tea,’ Laura told him. ‘We’re completely out.’

‘It’s a deal. Let’s make it a swap.’ Eric vanished, returning minutes later with the tea in a paper bag. ‘I heaped as much on the spoon as I could.’

‘I hope you know the difference between a tablespoon and a dessertspoon,’ Laura said severely when Eric followed her into the kitchen.

‘A tablespoon’s the biggest,’ he said, leaning against the door jamb. He was a big man, ruggedly handsome, with dark eyes and dark curly hair, comfortable with himself. Given the choice, she preferred his younger brother. Ben was quieter, less brash, a gentle person. Eric’s wife had died not long after Brian was born and he’d had a long time getting used to being a widower. He’d had quite a few lady friends since coming to Bootle, although he never brought them to the house.

She put the tea in the empty caddy and measured sugar carefully into the bag.

‘Will that do? It’s about time you learnt to live without sugar.’ He and Ben drank that ghastly Camp coffee needing mountains of sugar to disguise the taste.

‘I could say the same to you about tea. Why are you all dolled up?’ he asked curiously. ‘Are you going out with your friend, the glamorous Winnie?’ Winnie was a frequent visitor to Glover Street.

‘We’re going dancing at the Grafton. Queenie’s off to the pictures with your Brian and Jimmy Nicholls. I didn’t feel like staying in on my own on Saturday night. Hester’s over at the Monaghans’. Sammy’s six months old and having a party. I presume you and Ben are going out.’ Ben was upstairs, singing along to the wireless at the top of his voice. ‘When you wish upon a star,’ he crooned manfully.

‘We’ll probably go for a pint later. Another Saturday, you can always come with us rather than stay in by yourself.’

‘Thanks, but I wouldn’t be seen dead in the sort of pubs you frequent.’

He pretended to look hurt. ‘There’s nothing wrong with them.’

Laura grinned. ‘There is if you’re a woman. I’ve got my reputation to consider.’

‘OK, Miss Stuck-Up, we won’t invite you.’ He grinned back.

‘You’d better go and make your disgusting coffee. I haven’t finished getting ready for the dance.’

She went to collect her stockings and gave a little scream when she found Brian in the living room, sitting on them. ‘Stand up, young man, very slowly,’ she commanded. The stockings had stuck to his trousers and she carefully peeled them off.

‘Men!’ she huffed in the bedroom, sitting on the bed while she rolled the featherlight silky material on to her legs, stretching them to examine the soft, shimmering effect. ‘I should really be keeping these for when Roddy comes home,’

she told herself. ‘Lord knows when Herriot’s will get more in.’ But then only the Lord knew when Roddy would be home.

It was a year last June since she’d seen him, right after Dunkirk. He’d arrived exhausted, his feet swollen after the long march to the French coast. While home, he’d hardly spoken, refusing to talk about his experiences in France, and too weary to make love or travel to Wales to see Hester. He hadn’t noticed she’d had her hair cut short and Laura had felt she was getting on his nerves, asking too many questions, fussing over him. She’d felt awful when he’d refused to have anything to do with the Tylers, who’d offered to take him for a drink.

It had been frustrating, all the months he’d spent in Colchester. It wasn’t exactly the opposite side of the world, yet they’d been unable to meet, not even at Christmas. She’d suggested they try to catch up with each other in Birmingham, roughly halfway between, but he’d reminded her that with a twenty-four-hour pass he couldn’t guarantee getting back to base on time. When, in the New Year, he’d told her he was being posted to North Africa of all places, she’d written to say she thought it most unfair that he wasn’t allowed leave to see his wife before being sent so far away.

He’d written back in one of his impersonal letters, saying many wives came frequently to Colchester to see their husbands. ‘You could say it was unfair your job doesn’t allow you to take time off to do the same.’

It would have been easy to engage in a written argument, emphasising how important her job was, how essential to the war effort, and that she was surprised he was reduced to making such a trivial point. ‘For goodness’ sake, Roddy, I’m helping to make aeroplanes.’ But she’d held her tongue – or perhaps she should say her pen – and sent him the usual cheerful letter in return, full of local news and gossip and saying how much she missed him. He would be in Africa by the time he read it, and how could she write any other way to the man she loved who was risking his life for his country? He was still annoyed she hadn’t gone to Wales with Hester and it could only be because he loved her so much and why he resented her job. In Dunkirk, he had probably witnessed suffering she could only imagine and it had changed him. Once the war was over and they were together again, everything would return to normal.

Upstairs, Ben was now singing ‘The Last Time I Saw Paris’, and doing his best to sound like Maurice Chevalier. Listening, Laura smiled. The Tylers had taken the edge off what she’d expected to be a lonely, painful period, turning the house into a place full of laughter and good humour. The two older men, with their warm Geordie accents, were kind and generous to a fault. Brian was nice, if rather full of himself, and was obviously keen on Queenie, but Ben and Eric made her smile when she didn’t feel a bit like smiling, and she’d been instructed to come upstairs if ever she felt miserable and they would cheer her up, though they hadn’t been any use at all during the air raids, she remembered, having slept right through the fiercest, Brian too. Not even the bomb that had dropped at the end of Glover Street had woken them. With the landlord’s permission –

readily given – Ben had wired both flats for electricity, which was a boon.

Occasionally, she felt guilty for having such a good time, putting aside the terrible raids and the worry over Roddy. There was a wonderful camaraderie at work and the girls often went out together in a group, to the cinema or a pub.

They’d arranged to go for a meal on Christmas Eve.

There was a knock on the front door, but Laura didn’t move. Someone else would answer it. A minute later, the bedroom door was flung open and Winnie Corcoran came breezing in, waving a cigarette, bracelets jangling, exuding wafts of cheap scent, and wearing a fluffy jacket over a black, crępe frock, liberally decorated with sequins. Her nails, including her toes, were painted brilliant purple.

‘You bitch!’ she snorted. ‘You’ve got your silk stockings on. The first thing men look at is a woman’s legs. You’ll be asked up before me every time.’