The Girl from the Corner Shop

by Alrene Hughes

  She tried to pull away but he held fast to her hair. ‘Let me go!’ she cried.

  He pushed her back onto the bed and she struggled to sit up. ‘How dare you hit Rita like that.’

  ‘She made me angry, insulted me. I couldn’t believe you’d be chasing after an eighteen-year-old.’

  ‘Why not? She makes me feel alive.’

  ‘Can you not see she’s a scheming little minx – she’s only after your money.’

  ‘You’ve got something in common then, haven’t you?’

  ‘How can you say that? We’ve been together for years.’

  ‘Ha! Maybe that’s the problem.’

  Chapter 22

  Helen had been working the Saturday morning shift covering for a poorly telephone operator and as she left the building she was looking forward to a lazy afternoon at home. There was nothing in the house to eat, but she’d call at the bakery for a meat pie and an Eccles cake if there were any left.

  ‘Hello, Helen,’ someone called behind her.

  She turned to see Laurence Fitzpatrick coming towards her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked a little sharply.

  ‘I could say I was just crossing the road and there you were.’ He looked as though he was trying not to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  She frowned. ‘But that wouldn’t be true, would it?’

  ‘Alas, no. Truth is, I’ve been hanging round here for the best part of an hour. It’s a wonder one of your colleagues didn’t move me along for loitering.’ The smile finally broke through and he put up his hands. ‘I confess, I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ she said and set off walking.

  He fell into step beside her. ‘I want to apologise. I shouldn’t have shouted at you that night in the infirmary.’

  She stopped and looked at him. ‘Of course you should have shouted at me. I was in the way, you had work to do and I had no business sitting there. I’m pretty sure you’d do the same again, if I was so stupid.’

  He seemed to weigh her up. ‘You’re right, I would.’

  ‘So why were you waiting for me?’

  He looked away as though he was deciding whether or not to tell the truth, then he looked her in the eye. ‘Honestly, I was curious. When I met you at the supper club, I couldn’t reconcile the glamorous girl you seemed to be with your sad and serious temperament. Then you turned up in the hospital in the middle of the night and you’re a policewoman. I just thought… I’d see if I could find you and apologise for shouting at you.’

  She managed a smile. ‘All right then, I accept your apology.’

  He looked relieved. ‘Have you had your lunch?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘There’s a good café on the other side of Deansgate. Come on, I’ll treat you.’

  ‘I couldn’t let you do that.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll toss you for it.’ He took a half crown from his jacket pocket. ‘Heads you have lunch with me, tails I dine alone.’

  The coin was spinning in the air before she could say anything. He caught it and slapped it on the back of his hand. There was mischief in his eyes and she couldn’t resist looking as he removed his hand to reveal the King’s head.

  The café on Deansgate was grander than she had expected and most of the diners were businessmen. They sat at a window table and the waitress brought them the set lunch menu: Lancashire hotpot or meat and potato pie with bread and butter and a pot of tea for two, and for dessert steamed fruit roll and custard. When they had ordered, Helen said, ‘How did you track me down? There’s a lot of police stations.’

  ‘I was lucky. The first place I went to was police headquarters and I spoke to the desk sergeant. I explained that I’m a doctor at MRI and I’d been a little abrupt with the policewoman who came into the hospital the night of the murder and I wanted to apologise to her. He saw straight through me. “Oh, yes,” he said. “There were actually two women there that night and I’m guessing you mean the younger of the two.” He went into the office and he must have checked some rota or something because when he came out he said, “If you’re outside the building in about an hour you might see WAPC Harrison come out.”’

  The meal arrived and Laurence poured the tea. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any sugar.’ He looked round. ‘I’ll never get used to unsweetened tea. Always had three spoonfuls since I was a boy. My mother used to say too much sugar gives you worms.’ He laughed. ‘I was in the second year of medical school before I realised it was an old wives’ tale.’

  He kept up the conversation through the first course and Helen was content to listen. He had a way of spinning a yarn: lively and funny; laughter never far from his face. She learned his family came from Edinburgh.

  ‘My father was a barrister, keen to get on in life with his young family, so he came south to Manchester. My mother never really settled here, she hated the dirty air, the smog and the rain, but she soldiered on. When my father retired, they went back to Edinburgh and my sister went with them. I stayed here because I was working at the infirmary and I like the city, even if it is dirty.’

  Helen watched him closely as he spoke. His face was handsome in an odd sort of way: eyes as dark as chestnuts; thick hair with a touch of auburn; high cheekbones and a strong jaw. And when he smiled… could a man be called beautiful?

  ‘What do you think, Helen?’

  She hadn’t been listening. ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘I’m just saying it can be lonely sometimes when you work odd hours. You go to bed when everyone’s getting up. They’re out enjoying themselves and you’re still at work. I find myself going to the pictures on my own and falling asleep, or I play cards in a club because I can’t sleep. Then you eat on your own with no company. It’ll be the same for you sometimes, I suppose.’ He pointed at her wedding ring. ‘Maybe, it’s not so bad for you being married, you have somebody to talk to at home.’

  She could have, should have, told him there and then about Jim, but she didn’t want to go over the story yet again. It just made her so terribly sad and she’d grown tired of awkward condolences.

  The waitress returned with the puddings. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t have much of a story to tell. I haven’t done much.’

  ‘Of course you have – you’ve gone from the fashion business via a gentlemen’s club to policewoman.’

  ‘I’m not actually a policewoman, I’m only an auxiliary. I’ve spent most of my life in a corner shop. It’s only since… only in the last few months that I’ve done something different.’

  ‘And your husband? What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a fireman.’ Not quite the right tense but what did it matter anyway, she was unlikely to see Laurence again.

  But he seemed interested. ‘It must be unusual to have a married couple both working in emergency services.’

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know.’ She needed to switch the conversation. ‘And are you married?’ She could have bitten her tongue off. What would he think of her?

  But he only laughed. ‘Thankfully, no. Maybe I’ll think about it when the war’s over. Anyway, I don’t think any girl with an ounce of sense would marry me.’

  She thought he was completely wrong. What girl wouldn’t be interested in a handsome doctor?

  ‘Now don’t you contradict me like my mother!’ and the smile left his face. ‘I haven’t the time for courting, there’s too much work to do. Times like this past week during the heavy bombing when we were overwhelmed with desperately injured casualties. You try to patch them up but… all the time you worry about those left on trolleys or lying on the floor… that you can’t get to…’

  She wanted to reach across the table to touch him, but that was impossible and the words that came to mind were inadequate, but she spoke them anyway. ‘You do your best, Laurence, it’s not your fault.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I inv
ite you to lunch and pour out my problems. I bet you’re thinking, what kind of fellow is he.’

  ‘I’m thinking how awful it must be for you seeing all that suffering. It’s bound to take its toll.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never spoken those thoughts out loud before. Maybe it’s because you’re on the front line too. It couldn’t have been easy for you to see what happened to Marilyn.’

  ‘No, but I’ll have to get used to it, won’t I?’

  ‘It’s always hard, but when you’re doing the job you don’t think of it. It’s only afterwards when you’re on your own that you recall the whole picture and see the devastation.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s it exactly.’

  They came out into the afternoon sunshine and neither of them seemed in a hurry to part. ‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going home to sleep. I was on the early shift this morning. What about you?’

  ‘I usually call in to a rest centre – you know, for people bombed out – when I have a half day. It’s in the Whitworth Art Gallery,’ he told her.

  ‘An art gallery?’

  ‘Yes, the rest centre is in the basement, believe it or not. It’s not ideal. The people succumb to so many colds and infections. I give them medicine and some advice but, living in such close proximity, illnesses spread like wildfire.’

  ‘I know, we found a crowd of children living in a damp railway arch. One of them had scarlet fever, so they all went into isolation. Fortunately, it hadn’t spread, but they were so undernourished, they couldn’t have fought off an infection.’

  ‘You know, Helen, there are real problems in the rest centres with children getting into trouble, running wild, stealing, looting, most of it unreported. If you get a chance, maybe you could mention it to somebody at police headquarters.’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell my sergeant.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’d better be getting on.’

  ‘Yes, me too, thanks for lunch.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He didn’t move, just stood there looking about him.

  ‘Goodbye then.’ She turned to leave.

  ‘Helen, wait.’

  She looked into his eyes, saw the uncertainty. ‘What is it, Laurence?’

  ‘I’m glad I came to find you today. I enjoyed your company. Look, would you like to come to the rest centre with me?’

  She was wary of getting involved. There was no point. ‘No, I don’t think so, I need to get home.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course you do. Well, maybe our paths will cross another time,’ and he touched his forehead to bid her goodbye and walked away.

  On the way home, she went over in her mind every moment of her lunch with Laurence. How normal it had seemed just to sit and talk with someone who didn’t know she was a widow… Someone who didn’t need to ask how she was or worry that she might burst into tears. Instead, she had learned something about his life and anxieties.

  She came into the house to find a large brown envelope behind the door. Without taking her tunic off she went through to the kitchen and studied it: London postmark, quite thick, beautiful copperplate writing. She opened it carefully and emptied out the contents. The covering vellum letter was headed ‘Fire Brigade – Widows’ Pension Scheme’ and with it was a pension book. She hadn’t cried for Jim in a while, but there was no holding back now. She rocked back and forward, wiped her eyes and looked at the one line summing up Jim’s life: his name, rank, date of birth, date of death. Was that it? His whole life reduced to a handful of words? Below that they informed her that, as the widow of James Harrison (Deceased), Death Benefits of one pound per week would be paid for as long as she remained a widow. She went to bed in Jim’s cricket jumper and cried until she fell asleep.

  Chapter 23

  Helen was up early on the first of June. It was the Sunday of Whitsuntide and she had never in her life missed the Whit walks. Her mother always said that she had been wrapped in a shawl and carried as a baby in the parade; her mother being a Sunday school teacher and responsible for her class.

  All over the city the children would be getting excited, in their specially bought Whit week outfits, visiting family members and kind neighbours who would slip a few pennies or, if they were very lucky, a sixpence into their pockets. How she wished she could have the snaps her mother had taken – one for every year of her childhood. She loved the pretty white dresses with ribbons, lace or little buttons cut like diamonds to catch the sun. Then there were her Kiltie buckled shoes and white ankle socks and a little straw hat held on with elastic under her chin.

  She recalled the year when her mother couldn’t do a thing with her hair and said she’d have to go without a hat. On that year’s photograph, her hair looked like a halo around her head. Her mother hated it, but it was Helen’s favourite photo because she was looking straight at the camera and laughing. Her childhood was happy enough, just her and her mother, and she had never wanted for anything. When did all that change? she wondered.

  Looking back, she could remember when she was about eleven wanting to go out with girls from school, to the pictures or the park, but her mother wouldn’t allow it. ‘You don’t know what kind of characters might be lurking in those places.’ She didn’t approve of the girls who knocked on the door to ask her out to play and soon no one came calling for her. She was thirteen and lonely when Gwen joined her class, having moved into the area. They became good pals and she gained a bit of freedom, even though the dire warnings of what could happen to easily-led young girls continued.

  She had arranged to meet Gwen at the corner of Thorp Road and Oldham Road to watch the children from the churches in the area walk with their banners and ribbons. She spotted Gwen across the road and was pleased to see Frank was with her. It had been a few weeks since he came to paint the parlour and she had half expected him to call round to see her.

  She ran across the road to meet them. Frank had his arm around Gwen’s shoulder but his smile seemed strained. Gwen, on the other hand, looked radiant. ‘We haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said.

  ‘How’s life in the police?’ asked Frank.

  ‘Oh, you know, working hard,’ she said. ‘I’m on the night shift at ten tonight. I should really be in bed.’

  ‘Same here,’ said Frank, ‘but this one,’ he nodded at Gwen, ‘had me out dancing last night.’

  There was something false about the way he spoke and she wondered if Gwen noticed it too, but she kept looking up at him and smiling. There was no hint of that coolness he’d expressed about their relationship when she last saw him.

  The sudden sound of a drum in marching time further up the road put paid to conversation and she pushed those thoughts aside. The Whit walks had begun. Boy scouts led the way, followed by the first church with two burly men carrying a huge silk banner from which came ropes held by older children and behind them the little ones, some as young as three, with tiny baskets of flowers. The next church had a silver band in green uniforms with gold braid and everyone sang along to ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’. Another banner, more children, on and on they marched and the people who lined the road clapped and waved and shouted out to anyone they knew who was walking.

  Seeing Frank talking to the man next to him, Helen turned to Gwen. ‘Lovely day for it,’ she said and added with a whisper, ‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream.’

  Gwen giggled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Frank at the Whit walks, for a start, not to mention going out dancing.’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s a bit more attentive, ever since I gave him a little taste of what he could expect when we were married,’ and she giggled again.

  ‘You haven’t!’ Helen was shocked.

  ‘No, not quite, but he seems to like what he’s getting so far – he’s on a promise, as they say. Do you fancy being a bridesmaid?’

  Helen laughed and hugged her. ‘I’d love that!’

  *

  Helen ran up the stairs to
the second floor of the station just in time to sign in when Tommy, the police messenger, came up behind her.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ she said.

  ‘That’s ’cause I’m always on the night shift. Me mam’s not best pleased, she wanted me to stay at home tonight. She’s convinced there’ll be a raid; she says the Germans like to bomb when there’s a holiday and we’re all off our guard.’

  ‘She might be right, and there’s a full moon rising. You take care now and get in a shelter if the bombs are dropping.’

  ‘See you later,’ he said and off he went to the little staffroom to join the other messengers to wait for his first message.

  Most of the regular telephone operators were women auxiliaries, but sometimes others, like Helen with different jobs, would be drafted in to make up the rota. As Sergeant Duffy had explained during training, ‘A woman auxiliary needs to turn her hand to any role and that’s how you’ve been trained.’

  She was glad to see her friend, Sissy, was on duty and they sat next to each other on the high stools in front of the elaborate wooden switchboard that ran across the room. Each telephone operator had their own station on the board with sockets, connection wires and dials to pick up calls to connect with the emergency services, ARP posts and other police stations. Helen placed her headphones over her ears and adjusted her microphone. Almost immediately, a light on the board lit up and she answered her first call.

  The first few hours were quiet with typical incoming calls for a Sunday night: a burglary in Chorlton; suspicious characters spotted near a warehouse at Red Bank; an inebriated woman unconscious outside Piccadilly station. Around two in the morning the telephonist supervisor sent Helen, Sissy and two other WAPCs on a break. Tommy and a few other messengers were still in the staffroom playing cards. ‘So far so good,’ Helen shouted across to him.

  He laughed. ‘There’s time yet.’

  Before the kettle had boiled, the air-raid sirens sounded and the supervisor was at the door. ‘Back to the board. Quick as you can! There’s bombers sighted over Cheshire.’ She turned to the messengers. ‘And you, lads – stand ready.’