The Liverpool Trilogy (85 page)

‘There’s something else,’ Hilda whispered. ‘Something nearer.’ She didn’t know what she meant. Hilda Pickavance didn’t believe in sixth sense or any of
that nonsense, but her spine tingled and small hairs on her arms were standing to attention. It was the cold, she decided. She had gooseflesh, and it had probably arrived due to a mix of terror and
frost.

Nellie stared hard at fires and at a reddened sky. So that was war. She’d been moaning because her magazines were on the thin side, but people not too far away were being maimed and
killed. ‘Hilda?’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s the point of war? Why does it have to happen?’

Hilda did her best to explain about Poland, European Jews, the right to defend one’s country, the evils of extreme politics at both ends of the spectrum—

Another stick of bombs hit Manchester. As they landed, they threw up clouds of debris, some of which could well be human flesh and bone. ‘I hate bloody Germans,’ Nellie spat.

‘
Bitte?
’

Both women turned and saw his outline.

He smiled tentatively. ‘Plane in field,’ he said. ‘No man, no woman die. I stop engine and jump. I am come to stay – prison camp, I care not. For me is finish and Reich
has another plane gone. Mine friend, he has done same somewhere else. We are no Nazi.’

‘He’s a bloody German,’ Nellie roared.

With the help of a torch, Hilda gazed into a perfect face, well chiselled and handsome. ‘Yes, Nellie. He’s surrendering. We must take him inside. He has every right to surrender, and
we have a duty to treat him well. He is a prisoner of war and a visitor to our country.’

‘Are you sure? I can’t understand a word. We might be killed in our beds. He could be one of them spies.’ She raised her voice as if she were addressing a very deaf person.
‘Have you got a gun?’

‘
Nein.
And this is not number, is meaning no.’

‘You are in England now. Talk English when you do your words and numbers.’

Hilda forbade herself to smile. This young man’s English was easy to understand, while Nellie’s was variable at best.

They helped him inside, because he had a damaged ankle. ‘You know what I must do now?’ Hilda asked when he was seated by the fire.

He nodded. ‘
Danke.
I fly no more. I was fighter pilot.’

She spoke to Nellie. ‘Deal with that damper, please. He’s frozen to the bone.’ She left to use the phone.

Nellie refreshed the fire, made him a cup of tea with three sugars, eased the boot off the painful foot and cut away the sock. ‘This will hurt less than pulling,’ she yelled at the
top of her voice. ‘It’s not broke.’ She picked up a dead match and snapped it. ‘Not broke,’ she repeated, her head shaking vigorously. While binding his ankle, she
suddenly found herself weeping. Nellie wasn’t a regular weeper, so she knew she must be unusually upset, though she couldn’t think why. Yes, she could. He looked about three years older
than Phil. This baby had flown planes to protect German bombers.

The young man touched her hair. ‘Thank you, good Frau. The tears of an Englander will clean me. War is bad. Many, many Germans are not wanting this, but we dare not say because of
him.’ He placed a finger under his nose to act as moustache, and performed a travesty of the Nazi salute. ‘He is crazy.’

It wasn’t the boy’s fault. The culprit was only the uniform, not the person inside it. No soldier, sailor or airman could be blamed for the sick politics of his country. ‘Your
plane didn’t blow up. I didn’t hear you.’

‘Fighter,’ he said. ‘Small plane. I cut engine and jumped. Plane is in field. No explosion, but tell people stay away from it.’

She dried her eyes. ‘Where’s your parachute?’

‘In a . . .’ He sought the right word. ‘Where cows go at night.’

‘In a cowshed? You’ve parked a load of silk where it can get covered in shit?’

He smiled again. ‘I know what shit is meaning. No shit. Is on . . . shelf with chugs.’

‘Chugs?’

He made a pouring movement with his right hand. ‘Chugs.’

‘Jugs, love. They’re jugs.’ She took his hand. ‘Don’t tell nobody else,’ she begged, her words separated by seconds. ‘I can get two wedding dresses out
of that – three if the brides are thin.’ She bit her lip. ‘What happens to you now, son?’

‘Questions by Englander army police, prison to end of war.’

‘Bloody shame.’

‘No. They will find me work, and I will be careful. Other prisoners must not know I choose to surrender. My name Heinrich. This in English is Henry. My friend who jump near city of
Chester, he is Günter. His plane did explode, but away from buildings. I am hope he is safe. I am hope he find good people like you. So. I am Heinrich Hoffmann, and friend is Günter
Friedmann. We are having rear gunners, and they jump when we tell them plane is not work properly. They are not like us; they both believing in Hitler. So. Your name?’

‘Nellie Kennedy, and she’s Hilda Pickavance.’

When Hilda returned, she discovered the hardy perennial named Helen Kennedy holding hands with the enemy. ‘Excuse me,’ she said before leaving the room once more.

‘She come, she go,’ Henry remarked.

She came again with Phil in tow. ‘Draw that,’ she ordered. ‘And when this bloody mess is over, your work will teach people that we were not at odds with the German people. We
are fighting the Reich, as is this prisoner of war. The man chose to be here, Phil.’

Phil scanned the scene and committed it to memory. ‘I will,’ he said before marching up to the so-called enemy. ‘Welcome to England. I’m Phil.’

‘Heinrich – Henry in your language. I was in Luftwaffe and I choose to be prisoner in England. My grandfather has small part Jewish blood from his grandfather. If SS find him, he may
die in camp.’

They didn’t even knock when they came for Heinrich. The rear door flew inward and revealed two redcaps with rifles ready to fire, and an unarmed civilian policeman.

‘On your knees,’ shouted one of the military policemen.

Nellie released the hand of her new-found friend and marched up to the real invaders. A loaded rifle was pressed against her stomach, but the ferocity of her stare forced the bearer to lower his
weapon. ‘I should bloody well think so,’ she roared. ‘This is a private house on British soil. The German lad here crashed his plane on purpose so he could surrender. Harm one
hair, and I’ll spread you so far across the newspapers that you’ll look like jam.’

‘Only doing our job, ma’am.’

‘And he’s only surrendering. You’ll find his mate somewhere outside Chester – he’s dumped his plane, too. Their gunners baled out, but they are Nazis. These two
pilots should have a bloody medal, never mind flaming guns pointing at them. You want to watch yourselves, you do. Jessie Turnbull’s husband from the Edge went AWOL and finished up in the
loony bin. He wasn’t fit to fight, but did you care? Tried to kill himself. His mam lives down yonder, and so does his wife. Yous lot want talking about.’

Leaning on Phil, Heinrich hopped across the room. He held out his hands to be cuffed. ‘God save your King,’ he said.

‘Are you taking the wee-wee?’ the taller redcap asked.

Hilda decided to be in charge. ‘No, he is not. His grandfather is part Jewish, and although this young pilot’s Jewish blood is greatly diluted, he can’t in conscience take part
in the war. The top brass had a meeting, or so I’m told, and decided to allow some part-Jews to be Germans. He’ll have been forced to swear an oath. For him, that oath was a lie. I am
proud to know him. Our own royal family are part German.’

‘You what?’ The civilian policeman was scratching his head.

In Hilda’s unspoken opinion, some people didn’t deserve an education. ‘When you have done with your questions, you may return him here if you wish. I will vouch for him, and
for his friend, should you find him.’

Heinrich nodded. ‘Günter Friedmann near Chester. He does what I do.’

When they had left, Hilda and Nellie sat close to the fire. For over ten minutes, neither spoke. Then Nellie, who had been thinking hard, aired her opinion. ‘He’s just another
evacuee, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, dear. That’s exactly what he is. They had better be good to him, that’s all I can say. He was just a boy, Nellie. Their children are killing our children, and vice
versa.’

‘Merry blooming Christmas, eh, Hilda?’

‘I think we deserve a small brandy, Nell.’

‘Don’t bother. Just bring the bottle and a couple of straws. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be unconscious after all that.’

Mam had gone all evangelical. Was that the right word? She’d delivered a sermon down the phone this morning, and its title had been ‘Germans Are Not All Bad’.
She’d met a German with a face like an angel, he’d ditched his plane on purpose in the middle of a field, and there were several yards of parachute silk, did Eileen want it? Oh, and
happy Christmas Eve.

Eileen chuckled and shook her head in mock despair. She remembered lecturing her mother on this very subject, and Nellie Kennedy’s opinion had changed completely. Mam got worse, she really
did. She’d been going on about writing to Mr Churchill regarding the attitude displayed by members of the military police. The words still echoed. ‘Police? Bloody police? They
couldn’t direct traffic, couldn’t organize a kiddy’s birthday party. Have you got Mr Churchill’s address?’

‘We gave up corresponding for the duration, Mam,’ had been Eileen’s reply. ‘He’s in a bunker somewhere down London way. Oh, and he’s a bit busy these
days.’

Spoodle yapped. Twenty-four hours in this house, and he’d already worked out how to get the two-legged to open the back door. His method of egress seemed unique. Having failed thus far to
find his centre of gravity, he had fallen off the step a few times and landed on his head. So he shuffled round, allowing his fat little bottom to hit the ground first. Eileen could not believe the
cleverness of so young a creature. Seven weeks old, and he knew already when to turn his back on a cruel world.

He waddled off into his pen, did his duty, returned to the back door. Coming back in was not dignified. He scrabbled and struggled until the woman lifted him in. But he would manage it soon; he
was nothing if not dogged in his determination. It was all right here, warm, plenty of grub, nice naps on the old lady’s bed. He panted a smile at Eileen and went off in search of
trouble.

Right. It was now or never. Keith had gone to help builders who were still propping up a few houses down the road. Mel was upstairs writing about all the bombs that had fallen in the river last
night. Keith had heard it from one of the carpenters; last night had been Manchester’s turn for the bigger, nastier bombs. Now, Eileen would go and do what she had always done for her
children – her best. She removed her apron and smoothed the front of her best green suit. The blouse, made from remnants bought by Keith from Bolton Market, was a triumph in pale cream. Her
face was on, her shoes were polished; she was ready. The skirt’s waistband was a bit tight, but she’d manage.

She went upstairs to inform Mel that she was in temporary charge of Miss Morrison. ‘Sit and talk to her. I’ll be back in time for tablets. Take Spoodle in with you. She likes
Spoodle.’

‘Where are you going, Mam?’

‘Last minute shopping,’ was the delivered lie.

‘Have we any food points left? Or any coupons?’

‘A few.’

‘Right.’ Mel jumped up and stated her intention to find the dog. ‘You should have called him Colander instead of Spoodle. And don’t lie, Mam. You’d never go
shopping in those clothes. You’re going to see Gloria.’

‘Get yourself downstairs,’ Eileen said. ‘You’re in charge, and I’m off.’

Outside at last, Eileen straightened her hat and strode determinedly towards her goal. There were things that could be sorted out only by a woman, but this time she was going to hire back-up.
She needed Marie. His car wasn’t there. ‘Thank goodness for the sick,’ Eileen muttered as she opened the gate.

Marie answered the door. ‘Hello, Eileen.’ At least they were now on first name terms. They often met in shops, and Eileen delivered her knitting to the WVS on a regular basis, so
they were in contact quite frequently.

‘Is Gloria in?’

‘Upstairs.’ Marie widened the doorway to allow her visitor to enter. ‘Perhaps you and I should talk first. What a mess this is, and at the so-called festive season, too. Come
through, I’ve made you a small Christmas cake. Don’t ask about ingredients, or I might end up in jail.’

They got through the niceties in seconds – the lovely cake, the weather, rationing, bombs, the propping up of houses. Marie took a sip of tea. ‘She’s as miserable as sin up
there in her room.’

‘Snap.’

‘And Peter’s no better. Our girls were such good friends, Eileen. I even had a dream that Gloria would pull up her socks and go to university with Mel. They’re so suited, and
they could look after each other. Then Peter put a spanner in the works. Oh, I do hope he’s not going to be like—’ She cut herself off abruptly.

‘Like his father?’ Eileen finished on behalf of her hostess.

Marie nodded sadly. After a brief silence, she decided to fill Eileen in about all that had happened in recent months. She had learned about her own past and was now aware of all the facts. An
uncle, long dead, had stolen her childhood. Marriage had not suited her, and Tom had been a brute. ‘He wanted you. It was written all over his face that first day – remember? We had
Madeira cake?’

Eileen lowered her head for a moment. Denial would be completely inappropriate; this was an intelligent woman who deserved truth. ‘Sorry about your childhood, Marie. And yes. He nearly got
me, but I value myself too highly because of my family, mostly my kids. He is a very attractive and desirable man. My opinion is that he’s never been technically unfaithful to you, because he
wouldn’t risk his standing in the community. Selfish, isn’t he?’

Marie’s smile was almost radiant. She had found pleasure. She was now using him just as he had used her. ‘I do love him,’ she admitted. ‘But sometimes I don’t like
him one bit.’ She hid her blushing cheeks with both hands. ‘Now I’ve learned the mechanics of everything, I enjoy him.’ These words were blurred slightly by her fingers.
‘And I think he’s aware that I’m inwardly critical of his performances. There’s a chance I might start awarding marks out of ten.’