The September Girls (42 page)

‘Well, it isn’t really any of your business, is it, pet?’ Nancy said mildly.

‘It is while he’s living under
my
roof, Nancy. If only our Cara were home,’ she continued fretfully. ‘She’s got a sensible head on her shoulders and at least she’d be someone to talk to. But nowadays even she only writes once a fortnight when she used to write every week.’ She sniffed wretchedly. ‘All me kids are letting me down, Nancy.’

‘Don’t be daft, Brenna,’ Nancy said a touch impatiently. ‘Fergus isn’t letting
you
down by seeing a married woman and Tyrone can’t help being depressed. As for Cara, I expect she has loads to do in Malta. You’re lucky she writes once a fortnight. I can’t remember when Marcus last had a letter from Sybil.’

Then Mam began to cry and Cara went upstairs, ashamed of herself for eavesdropping, feeling dead sorry for her mother, but at the same time a bit irritated that she expected her children to be perfect. She didn’t know, not yet, that Cara was the most imperfect of them all.

 

The raids continued, becoming even more destructive, as hundreds and hundreds of German bombers flew over Liverpool, dropping their lethal cargo on the city, as if intent on wiping it off the face of the earth. The atmosphere in the kitchen became more animated, even rowdy, when they played cards. The longer the raid continued the more wine Nancy and Marcus drank - he’d insisted Cara stop calling him Mr Allardyce. Nancy, whose language could be earthy at the best of times, cursed loudly at every explosion, and Marcus, normally so unsmiling and serious, discovered a dry wit when in his cups. They both made Cara laugh, even though she knew they could all die at any minute and she was worried sick for her family in Shaw Street. Yet she thought she couldn’t have endured the raids in a better place or with such enjoyable company.

Christmas came and by now she was huge, the baby due to arrive in about six weeks. December had been relatively free from attacks, but a few days before Christmas the siren went at half past six, signalling the start of a heavy bombardment that lasted until the early hours of the morning. The next night, the city suffered an assault that continued for almost twelve hours and Christmas Eve saw no let up.

They couldn’t play cards, laugh or joke, not while the carnage continued outside. It was half past one on Christmas morning when the all-clear went, and the sound had never been so welcome. Cara climbed the stairs to her bedroom with a heavy tread and a heavy heart. What sort of crazy world was she bringing her baby into? At the top, she paused by the window on the landing and drew the curtain back. It was as if every part of Liverpool was on fire, the flames turning the sky livid red. This was surely what hell must look like, she thought angrily. She could hear the urgent clang of fire engines and the scream of ambulances as they raced along the streets. How many people had died tonight? Her father had been out in all this mayhem and she prayed he was all right and that Shaw Street was still standing and everyone there was safe. Nancy had promised to check first thing in the morning,
Christmas
morning, normally such a joyous occasion, a time for giving and receiving, for prayers and carols and going to Mass, not for grieving and checking if people were dead or alive.

The baby gave her a fierce kick. She hugged her stomach and promised him that he would be all right, that she would keep him safe, although she knew the promise was an empty one. If ever there was another war, mothers would have no say in whether their sons would be sacrificed in order to restrain one man’s vanity and his insane desire to force his will on the world.

 

It was an icy cold day at the end of January when Cara’s baby arrived. She was in the kitchen, still in her dressing gown, having breakfast when she had the first contraction, but didn’t mention it to Nancy until the second one came.

‘I’ll ask Marcus to alert the midwife,’ Nancy said calmly.

Cara had refused to see a doctor during her pregnancy, claiming she felt exceptionally well and that there was no need. And, she added, she preferred to have a midwife in attendance when her time came.

‘But what if there are complications?’ Marcus had asked, looking worried.

‘We can call a doctor then,’ Cara said simply.

He came rushing into the kitchen now, looking flustered. ‘I’ve called the midwife. I told her to come round straight away.’

Cara laughed. ‘But there’s no need, she’ll be sitting around with nothing to do for hours. I’ve only had a few mild contractions. Whoops! There’s another.’ She winced. ‘That one hurt.’

‘I think you’d be best in bed, pet,’ Nancy said. ‘I’ll start boiling some water.’

‘But I don’t want to go to bed!’

‘And I don’t want you having the baby on me kitchen floor. Get to bed this very minute and I’ll bring you up a cup of tea.’

‘You’re trying to make me out an invalid,’ Cara said sulkily. She went upstairs reluctantly, Marcus hovering anxiously behind. She was just about to open the door of her room, when a wave of pain made her double up in agony. Marcus helped her into bed just as the front door bell rang.

‘That’ll be the midwife.’ He virtually ran out of the room. A few minutes later, the midwife, rosy-faced and briskly efficient, entered, followed by Nancy with pans of hot water and old sheets.

‘You’re far too early,’ Cara told them sternly. ‘The baby won’t be born for ages yet.’

‘Let me be the judge of that, young lady. Now, lie down flat and lift up your nightie.’

Cara giggled and did as she was told and, as the midwife told her colleagues a few hours later, ‘It was almost as if the mother lifting her nightie acted as a signal to the baby, because it came shooting out, taking us all by surprise, the mother most of all. Oh, and it was a girl, a beautiful little girl, absolutely perfect - magnificent pair of lungs on her, too. She weighed a fraction under nine pounds and she’s to be called Kitty.’

 

Kitty quickly established herself as ruler of the household. When she was asleep, Nancy and Marcus tiptoed around, worried they would wake her. Awake, and her golden curls, so much like Cara’s, would be admired, her blue eyes with their long lashes, her little pink mouth and long white limbs.

‘She’s going to be tall, like you,’ Nancy said to Cara.

‘Isn’t she!’ Cara said gleefully. Once she’d got over the shock of her son turning out to be a daughter, she’d fallen head over heels in love with Kitty, who only cried when she was hungry or her nappy needed changing and otherwise was no trouble at all. ‘I can’t believe I’m a mother,’ she said in an awed voice.

‘What about your own mother, pet?’ Nancy asked gravely. ‘Isn’t it about time she knew about Kitty? You said you were going to tell her after the baby had been born.’ By now, Kitty was a fortnight old.

Cara hung her head. ‘I know, but I’ve only made things worse, living here all this time and Mam not knowing a thing about it, haven’t I? She’ll be even madder now than she would have been before. If I’d gone straight to Shaw Street when I got back from Malta, she’d have got over it by now.’

‘But you couldn’t have lived there,’ Nancy reminded her. ‘There wasn’t the room - your Fergus has to sleep on a camp bed in the parlour - and, even if there had been, Brenna wouldn’t have been exactly keen on the whole world knowing her daughter was having a baby on the wrong side of the blanket. I love your mam, Cara, but she has her faults like everyone else, including meself. The thing is, though, you can’t keep Kitty a secret for ever. You can’t stay inside the house for ever, either. It’s cold now, but as soon as the weather improves the baby will need fresh air - you could do with some yourself an’ all. What happens if you’re out and you come face to face with your mam?’

Cara groaned. She’d got herself into a terrible predicament and didn’t know how to get out of it.

 

March blew itself in, and with it came clear skies, a weak sun and an increase in the temperature. Cara started to take Kitty for walks very early in the morning when there was hardly anyone about. She pushed the pram around the centre of the city, seeing for the first time the huge crater in Hanover Street, not far from Frederick & Hughes, Eleanor’s favourite shop, the spot where a mine had fallen, only just missing the Adelphi Hotel, and other familiar buildings reduced to heaps of rubble. The Town Hall had been damaged and incendiary bombs had set St George’s Hall alight, although the building still stood and had been roped off. She saw many other ugly sights on her early morning walks - and this was only the tip of the iceberg. The dock area had been the chief target of enemy bombs and, according to Nancy, the destruction there was horrific - all over the city there were similar sights, evidence of man’s inhumanity to man, something she would never understand for as long as she lived. Yet Nancy said people were standing up to the bombing with incredible courage. There’d be no sign of panic. ‘Stalwarts,’ she called them.

‘I’m glad you can’t see this, sweetheart,’ Cara said to Kitty, snugly tucked up inside the big pram in which Anthony, then Sybil, had once been pushed. The raids had been fewer since the year began, with none so heavy as those just prior to Christmas, and Kitty had slept through every one. Her little world consisted of warmth and food and being loved, and Cara wanted to keep it that way for as long as she possibly could.

 

At the beginning of April, Cara announced she was going away for a few days. ‘To London. There’s someone there I want to see.’

Nancy expressed her astonishment. ‘Are you taking Kitty?’

Cara wouldn’t have dreamt of moving outside the door without Kitty, let alone going all the way to London. ‘Of course. She’s still being breastfed, isn’t she?’

‘It’ll be an awful journey, pet, taking a baby on the train all the way to London.’ She still looked doubtful. ‘How long did you say you’d be gone?’

‘Three days and two nights, that’s all.’

Marcus proved even harder to convince that she and Kitty would be all right. Cara managed to assure him that she wouldn’t come to any harm, but he then began to worry she wouldn’t come back.

‘I’m leaving tomorrow, Wednesday, and I’ll be back on Friday,’ she promised, ‘and I hope by then you’ll have been to see the doctor.’ Lately, he’d been complaining of a sharp pain in his stomach.

‘I hate doctors.’ He shuddered.

‘I’m not so keen on them either, but you need something for that pain. Promise me you’ll see one,’ she said in a wheedling voice.

‘All right, I promise,’ he said grudgingly.

On the day of her departure Marcus insisted on ordering a taxi to take her to Lime Street Station and came with her so he could carry her suitcase on to the train and make sure she found a seat.

‘Are you sure you’re coming back?’ he asked anxiously when they said goodbye through the window.

‘I’ll see you on Friday,’ Cara told him firmly.

After an uneventful journey - Kitty behaved admirably the whole way, gaining loads of admirers - they arrived at Euston mid-afternoon where Cara hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take her to 57 Greek Street. The driver gave her an odd look and, when they reached their destination and he got out to get her suitcase from the boot, he said, ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right place, love?’

‘It’s the address I was given,’ Cara explained. She thought the street looked rather sordid. It appeared to consist mainly of small shops with neon lights blinking in the windows, some with letters missing. Number fifty-seven was called Raz ma tazz and she assumed it should be Razzmatazz.

The taxi driver was still hovering. ‘There’s a door here for flats one, two and three. D’you know which one you want, love?’

‘Number three.’

‘That must be the top floor. Shall I ring the bell?’

‘Please.’ She appreciated his obvious concern, even though she couldn’t understand the reason for it.

He pressed the bell for what seemed like ages and it was still ringing when the door was opened by a small, dishevelled figure who said irritably, ‘I was asleep. What’s up? Have the Germans invaded or something?’

Cara stepped forward. ‘Hello, Fielding.’

‘Caffrey!’ the small figure gasped. ‘What the hell are you doing here? How did you know where I lived?’

‘Sybil Allardyce gave me your address and I’ve come to see how you are.’

‘I’m absolutely fine.’ Fielding burst into tears. ‘No, I’m not, Caffrey. If the truth be known, I wish I’d been killed when that bomb exploded, I really do.’

‘If there’s anything I can do to help . . .’ Having made sure Cara and Kitty were going to be all right, the taxi driver appeared ready to sort out Fielding, but Cara thanked him for being so kind and said that, now that she was there, her friend was going to be OK.

Much to Eleanor’s relief and Jonathan’s annoyance, he had so far remained on British soil in a place called Thurso on the northernmost tip of Scotland. Mother and son prayed every night at cross purposes; Eleanor that he’d stay where he was, and Jonathan that he’d be posted to a place where there was some action to be had. He came home on leave every few months, leaner and fitter, and spoiling for a fight with the Jerries.