The Girl from the Corner Shop

by Alrene Hughes

  ‘I’m Teddy,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’ His face was so eager. How old could he be, eighteen, nineteen maybe? A good-looking lad, well-spoken.

  ‘Helen.’

  He gave a nervous smile. ‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said. ‘You look so lonely. Has your friend gone?’

  Helen sighed. ‘I don’t think so, she’s dancing with someone. She’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  She shook her head. Why on earth had she agreed to go dancing? What was she expecting – that she’d suddenly feel happy again or at least forget the awful sadness? The music, laughter and constant chatter had no relevance to her. She closed her eyes and let the familiar isolation overwhelm her. The touch on her hand jolted her and she opened her eyes to see the concern in the lad’s face, and coming towards her was Gwen and her corporal.

  ‘Helen, it’s so warm in here,’ she said, her face flushed. ‘We’re just going outside to get some fresh air.’ She giggled. ‘I’m glad you’ve got some company. Don’t worry, we won’t be long.’

  It was then that the young airman asked her to dance.

  It helped that he was so tall. She rested her head against his shoulder, closed her eyes and let him guide her around the crowded dance floor. In the darkness, there was only her and the lad and the slowest of waltzes. The slightest movement of his hands and she felt his touch. He spoke softly of nothing and his breath on her ear made her shiver. Without warning, he stepped back from her. She opened her eyes and realised the music had stopped and people were clapping. ‘Helen, are you all right?’ Her head was spinning and she couldn’t focus. He took her hand and led her back to the table. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  How could she explain that for the length of a slow waltz the lead weight of grief had somehow been lifted? She simply forgot who she was in this young man’s arms.

  ‘You look so pale, you don’t feel faint, do you?’

  She stared at his hand still holding hers, and the startling thought that no one had touched her for so long made her want to cry.

  ‘Maybe you need some fresh air,’ he said. ‘We could go outside for a while. What do you say?’

  She jerked her hand away as though stung. ‘No, no! I’m fine. Just leave me, please.’

  ‘But—’

  Her voice rose. ‘Look, I’m all right,’ and she pushed past him and fled to the Ladies. There she rinsed her wrists under the cold water and took a good look at herself in the mirror. What had she been thinking of, dancing with that lad and taking comfort in the way he held her? She felt deeply ashamed and, worse, she felt she had betrayed Jim.

  Gwen was sitting at the table when she came back but there was no sign of the corporal or the airman. ‘Well, I won’t be doing that again in a hurry.’ Gwen shook her head. ‘I had a wrestling match with a man with wandering hands who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. How did you get on with the lad?’

  ‘We just had a dance, that’s all. I was thinking we should go.’

  ‘Me too. Shall we call it a night and get some chips on the way home?’

  Chapter 17

  Helen was sick to death of paperwork. She had managed to get a couple of night shifts and really enjoyed being out on the beat, but she wanted more. So, when Sergeant Duffy came to ask her if she would be available to work the night shift on the Saturday she said yes right away.

  ‘CID have got something going on, can’t say what, but they want a strong presence in the city centre,’ Sergeant Duffy explained. ‘You’ll walk the beat with me. It’s a tough area, but it’ll be good experience for you.’

  Helen and Sergeant Duffy, wrapped up in their greatcoats, came out of Bootle Street headquarters into the cold night. The sky was cloudless and the half moon and stars could be seen through the smoke of thousands of chimneys.

  They walked past the Free Trade Hall and on into St Peter’s Square where taxis waited at the rank outside the Midland Hotel to ferry home the wealthy citizens of Manchester.

  ‘Sure, that’s the life, isn’t it?’ said Sergeant Duffy. ‘They’ll have had a damn good dinner and plenty of liquor to wash it down. No rationing for that crowd.’ They walked on into Oxford Street where the theatre-goers were pouring out of the Palace. By now Helen could see where they were headed and she felt uneasy to find herself in the vicinity of the Plaza ballroom. ‘We’re coming up now to an area where we have problems with a couple of dance halls and pubs. We’re looking out for drunks, fights, sexual attacks, that kind of thing. We’ve tried to get the ballrooms not to give pass-outs, but it’s impossible. So, we’ll start here, round these backstreets. Mostly we just move the courting couples on but, if we suspect the girls are underage, we’ll take their names and send them packing. If they claim they’ve been assaulted, that’s a different matter altogether.’

  They turned down the side of the Plaza on to a narrow, cobbled street. ‘You’ll need your torch to see what’s going on.’ They hadn’t gone more than twenty yards when Helen caught a couple in a sweep of the beam. A sailor with his cap askew and a girl in a bright green dress hiding her face from the light.

  ‘Police,’ Sergeant Duffy shouted. ‘Move along, you two, or I’ll nick you for indecency.’ The couple hurried away, doing up buttons as they went.

  They walked on and Sergeant Duffy told her, ‘Next couple we come across, you decide what to do with them.’ But Helen was so shocked at what she had just seen, she couldn’t trust herself to speak. It could have been her and the airman, if she hadn’t come to her senses. No, she told herself: you didn’t go with him, you sent him away!

  Another sweep of the torch and there was a girl, so young, eyes wide with fright, a sudden cry. The man looked like late twenties.

  ‘Stand where you are,’ Helen shouted, but the man rushed past her, pushing her to the ground, and by the time she was on her feet again he had gone.

  Sergeant Duffy had hold of the girl who was sobbing. ‘There, there, love. You’re safe now,’ and she asked her to explain what he had done to her. The couple had only been outside a few minutes and they had been kissing. ‘But he wanted more, touching me, you know? Then you shone the torch on us.’ Sergeant Duffy turned to Helen.

  ‘What next, Harrison?’

  Helen asked the girl her name, age and address and wrote the details in her notebook. ‘You don’t look sixteen to me. How old are you really?’

  The girl didn’t look at her. ‘I’m fourteen,’ she said.

  ‘Now tell me, are you on your own in town or did you come with someone else?’ She had come to the Plaza with her friends and they were still inside. ‘You shouldn’t be in a dance hall at your age, so we’ll go back there where you’ll find your friends and all of you will go straight home. We have your details recorded, so we don’t expect to see you around here again. You’ve had a lucky escape tonight. You might not be so lucky next time.’

  When the girls were rounded up and sent on their way, Helen and Sergeant Duffy went back on the beat.

  ‘You handled that well, Harrison, spotting she was a child.’

  ‘But the man got away.’

  ‘There was nothing you could do about that. The child is safe and sometimes that’s the best we can do. It’s like chipping away at concrete. Crime’s grown since the war started, especially against women. I don’t know what it is… Something in the air…’ She shook her head. ‘When you could be killed in an air raid at any time, some people go hell for leather to grab everything they can get, whether it be theft, grievous bodily harm, attacks on women – a whole catalogue of crime. Life’s cheap these days.’

  They walked further along Oxford Road towards the university and called into some pubs, checking with the landlords whether there were any suspicious customers. ‘The black market is rife,’ Sergeant Duffy told her. ‘There are always spivs in pubs trying to sell stolen goods, like cigarettes. Sometimes the landlord will give you the nod that they’re selling, but if it’s someone they know they take their cut
and turn a blind eye.’

  It was one in the morning when they arrived in Canal Street. Helen had heard mention at the station of the area, a notorious red-light district, and she had seen some of the women brought in for soliciting. Now she was about to see it for herself. Some women were sitting on the canal wall.

  ‘Hello, girls.’ Sergeant Duffy greeted them like old friends. ‘What’s going on the night, then?’

  ‘Just freezin’ our arse off, waitin’ for the punters.’

  ‘This is Harrison, woman auxiliary, she’s not been around these parts before.’

  An older woman with a smoker’s rasping voice called out, ‘Well, she’d better watch out, with a figure like that she could be stealin’ our custom,’ and the girls gave a good-humoured laugh.

  ‘Any dodgy characters around?’ asked Sergeant Duffy.

  ‘A couple, but they were just moochin’; didn’t look like they had it in them.’ More laughter.

  ‘That one Marilyn went off with looked like he had a bob or two – nice overcoat. Not seen him before.’

  ‘She’s been gone a while,’ said another of the women, ‘hope she’s on double time!’

  ‘Well, girls, keep yourselves safe and we’ll be back this way in about an hour. We’re taking a break at Bridie’s café, if you need us. In the meantime, don’t work too hard.’

  The windows of the café were steamed up and coming through the door Helen was amazed to see the place was packed at one in the morning. The woman behind the counter looked up, spotted Sergeant Duffy and shouted, ‘I’ve told you before, no Ulster prods allowed in here!’

  ‘Ach, away on with you, you Fenian culchie. I suppose you’re still sellin’ that rancid Irish stew.’

  ‘Best Irish beef straight off the Holyhead boat.’

  ‘Well if there’s nothing else, give us two bowls and some of that soda bread.’

  While they waited for a table, Helen observed the motley crew of customers: men in greasy boiler suits; a couple of nurses in their capes; gents in dinner suits; an old prostitute with grotesque make-up.

  Sergeant Duffy followed her gaze. ‘You’ll find all human life washed up in a café in the wee hours of the morning. This is our factory floor, Harrison. Get used to it.’

  ‘Are you ever afraid out at night walking these streets?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Not really, I do my job and most of the time I’m not afraid but, I have to say, there have been moments when I’ve feared for my life.’ She shrugged. ‘Keep your wits about you, Harrison, learn all you can and weigh up the risks. It’s not our job to be martyrs.’

  A table was vacated and no sooner had they sat down than Bridie brought them the stew. ‘Did ye hear that aul traitor Lord Haw-Haw on the radio again, threatening us and namin’ the streets they’re goin’ to bomb?’

  ‘Ach, take no heed of that, Bridie, he’ll not drop bombs on you. Sure, he knows this café’s neutral territory, just like the rest of Ireland.’

  The stew was good and Helen asked about the soda. ‘I’ve never tasted bread like this before.’

  ‘No yeast, you see, but plenty of bicarbonate of soda and buttermilk,’ said Sergeant Duffy and she leaned across the table and whispered, ‘She makes the best soda I’ve ever tasted, but don’t tell her I said so.’

  ‘I know you’re Irish, but what was all that banter with Bridie?’

  ‘Ah, now there’s the conundrum. Strictly speaking, I’m from Northern Ireland, at least I have been since 1922, that’s when the free state came into being and the six counties stayed as they were, that’s to say, British. So, I’m British, not Irish, unlike your woman, Bridie.’ She laughed. ‘And now I’ve addled your brain at this time in the morning.’

  ‘Why did you come to England?’

  ‘Bless us, is this an interrogation?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t mind telling you. I worked for the RUC, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, as a telephone operator. I sometimes helped out – just being in the room really – when a woman was brought in for questioning or, more often, been attacked. I really wanted to be a police constable, but the job wasn’t open to women. Then I heard there were a few policewomen in England so, with the bravado of youth, I came across the water.’

  ‘And you joined the police.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t that easy, but I was a trained telephone operator and that got me a foot in the door. Then I met Police Woman Clara Walkden. She understood that women needed a different style of policing and more policewomen to sniff out what was really going on. Anyway, she saw something in me, and she made it her business to get me into uniform.’

  She seemed lost in her memories and Helen watched in silence the hint of a smile on her lips. What she said next took Helen by surprise. ‘You remind me of myself when I was younger. You know what I’m saying?’

  Before Helen could answer, the café door flew open and one of the girls from Canal Street rushed in and shouted, ‘Marilyn’s been attacked! She’s in a bad way.’ Sergeant Duffy was first on her feet and Helen, hard on her heels, followed her out the door.

  The girl was in an air-raid shelter off Whitworth Street. It was cold as a tomb, pitch dark and stinking of urine. A sweep of a torch and they found her. Helen felt the vomit rush to her throat at the sight of her. There was blood pouring from her neck, and spreading in a halo, staining her blonde hair, but it was her face, white as snow, that shocked Helen. She was so beautiful. Sergeant Duffy was on her knees trying to staunch the blood. Helen shone her torch on the girl and averted her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare throw up, Harrison! And keep that torch steady. She’s alive, thank God, but she’s losing so much blood. Now listen, Harrison, run to the police box, the one we passed outside the Briton’s Protection pub, remember? Ask for an ambulance urgently, air-raid shelter at Whitworth Gardens, and a constable to assist us, then get back here quick as you can.’

  In no time at all she was back and a few minutes later they heard the bell of the ambulance clanging towards them. ‘You go with her, they’ll take her to Manchester Royal Infirmary from here, stay with her to see if she can give us any information. I’ll stay here to find out as much as I can from the women, the ones who haven’t run away. Then I’ll come to the hospital.’

  Manchester Royal Infirmary was only minutes away and Helen prayed that Marilyn would hold on. The ambulance man was pressing a towel to the wound but still the blood dripped. At the hospital, the trolley was pushed straight through into a cubicle, where she was lifted on to the bed with the man still stemming the blood from her neck. Helen slipped into the cubicle behind him.

  A nurse took over and a minute later a doctor arrived in his white coat, stethoscope round his neck. ‘Keep the pressure on,’ he told the man.

  Helen sat on the chair in the corner and watched him.

  As he took her pulse he said, ‘Can you hear me?’ No response. He shone a light into each eye. There was an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  He wasn’t aware of Helen and she didn’t dare speak when he was so intent on what he was doing. From the back he looked young to be a doctor. He gently turned Marilyn’s head to one side and looked closely at the wound on her neck. She heard him sigh. ‘She’s gone,’ he said to the man and that was when he noticed the police uniform. ‘What are you doing in here?’ he shouted. ‘You’re not allowed—’ He stopped; looked puzzled. ‘Helen?’

  She was just as surprised as he was – the doctor was Laurence Fitzpatrick from the supper club.

  At that moment there was the unmistakable sound of Sergeant Duffy outside in the corridor. ‘Harrison, where are you?’

  ‘In here,’ called Helen, her eyes still on Laurence, but now Sergeant Duffy was in the cubicle.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  Laurence addressed them both. ‘Get out of here, both of you. A young woman has just died and we have to see to her.’

  Sergeant Duffy was about to ask him something, but h
e said bluntly, ‘Go, right now.’

  Out on the street again, Sergeant Duffy explained, ‘There’s nothing more we can do. I’ve spoken to the girls on Canal Street and there were only two who saw the man with Marilyn, but they were sure he wasn’t a regular punter. Of course, it was quite dark and all they could say was that he might have been wearing a tweed overcoat and a homburg, like plenty of other men, and he was tall, not a clue about his face, but one of them thought he sounded like “one a them actors in the pictures”.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Go back to the station. The incident will already have been passed on to CID. They’ll interview the prostitutes again and there’ll be a medical report. They’ll probably want to talk to us as well, so make sure you have your notebook written up.’

  They walked in silence for a while. Helen was going over everything she had seen from the moment they found Marilyn to her last breath. She never would have thought that a body could be so full of blood and the way it spurted… She shuddered.

  ‘Is it the first time you’ve seen a dead body?’ asked Sergeant Duffy.

  Helen nodded.

  ‘It’s always a shock to the system, but this was a brutal murder. You have to push away the images and I know it’s easier said than done, but you mustn’t dwell on it. Now, what you need is strong, sweet tea. Come on, we’ll walk back to headquarters.’

  ‘Are there a lot of attacks on the women?’ asked Helen.

  ‘The prostitutes? They’re always vulnerable and sometimes they’re beaten up or robbed. That tonight was one of the worst incidents I’ve seen.’

  ‘Why do these women end up on the street? Could they not get another job?’

  Sergeant Duffy stopped and turned to her. ‘My God, do you think they want to do this? These women are desperate and there’s a pitiful story to be told by every one of them. I often think that, there but for the grace of God, it could be any one of us. It’s our duty to protect them, Harrison, don’t ever forget that.’

  When they got back, Helen went to wash her face and hands in the ladies’ lavatory, while she cried for a girl called Marilyn that she never knew and thought about Laurence Fitzpatrick who had tried to save her.