The Mersey Daughter

by Annie Groves

  Kitty dragged herself to her feet. ‘Thanks, Laura,’ she said, tired but meaning it. ‘I know I shouldn’t rush into any decisions now about the funeral. Heaven knows there are plenty of other people in the same boat as me – and worse, in fact. I’ll go where the navy needs me now. That’s the best thing I can do to honour Elliott’s memory – to do my duty too, wherever I’m called to go.’

  ‘Come on then, Kitty. There’s no way you can do your duty if you haven’t slept,’ Laura urged her gently and, taking her friend’s arm, she led her back up the stairs to the dormitory.

  Rita held open the door to the kitchen as Ruby carefully tried to manoeuvre her way inside, uncertain of her balance on the crutches. The small space was crowded enough when there was more than one person in the room, but with somebody on crutches it was twice as tricky. Eventually Ruby managed to get to the table and slowly sat down on one of the hard chairs.

  ‘There. You did it.’ Rita had been endlessly encouraging in the few days since Ruby had come home. It was going to be a long process, but she couldn’t let the young woman down, or she would retreat into her shell once more. Rita was determined that would not happen. Ruby had spent so many years cowering and afraid, being told she was good for nothing. She couldn’t let this horrible incident set her back.

  ‘Now, look what the postman brought,’ Rita said. ‘A letter from the farm – how’s that for a welcome home present? I haven’t even opened it; I knew you’d want to see it too.’

  Ruby’s face broke into a smile. ‘Yes please.’

  Hastily Rita opened the envelope, carefully saving it to use later – she never threw anything away any more if she could help it. Her heart soared at the thought of news from her precious children, whom she still missed painfully every day. But thank God they hadn’t been here during the latest raid. As ever, she told herself they were in the best place and in the safest hands. She unfolded the sheets of paper and was delighted to see one was from Michael and the other from Megan. Rita could guess that Joan or Seth must be helping her, as she was only seven, but her handwriting was improving each time. Rita’s sense of pride in her children welled up. If she wasn’t careful she could easily shed a tear, but she knew she must keep herself under control or it would upset Ruby. ‘Let’s see what they have to say.’ She scanned the first page. ‘Michael’s been chosen for the football team at school. Fancy that. He always loved kicking a ball around in the street but I couldn’t tell if he was any good or not. Maybe Seth has been teaching him.’

  Her heart constricted at the thought that Charlie had never bothered to do anything like that. He’d avoided the children whenever he could and Winnie had simply complained that they were too noisy. What sort of upbringing was that? She fervently hoped that Seth was showing Michael how to be a good man, a good husband, in a way that Charlie never could have done. Of course, if it had been Jack at the head of the household, everything would have been different. What a fine example he would have set, and he’d have been out there playing football at every opportunity. But fate had decided differently – and in any case he would still be away serving his country, of that she had no doubt. How she had longed to see him this week, counting the days until his leave, but she would have to wait.

  ‘Michael’s been helping with Bessie the goat, who was sick but is better now. Joan has made rosehip syrup and tells them to have some every day – that’s good for their vitamins, Ruby – and he’s got new shoes because the others were too small.’ She stopped again, saddened that she was not there to see how her son was growing. He was a proper boy now, not the little child she sometimes automatically thought of. ‘Here, you can read it for yourself while I look at Megan’s.’ She passed Michael’s letter across to Ruby.

  Megan’s letter was much shorter and the writing was larger, with the letters still separate and not joined up. But they were clearly formed and even-sized, which made Rita very proud. To think Megan had once been thought of as slow. She wasn’t at all.

  ‘I helped with the eggs,’ she read. ‘Now there are not many … oh, no, that’s strange.’ She didn’t want to alarm Ruby, but Megan had described the return of the shadow man. Again she didn’t seem afraid but mentioned it as if he was a fact of life, like the hens stopping laying for the winter. The fences had been broken and the hay bales thrown around so they wouldn’t be any good to use. The milk pail had gone missing. Was it the little girl’s overactive imagination, or was there some peril lurking in the apparently safe lanes and fields of the farm? Rita shuddered at the very idea. No, surely not. Seth and Joan would guard her precious children. They had none of their own and had taken to her two and Tommy as if they were family. To all intents and purposes, that’s exactly what they were. They would not let them come to harm. The fences must have been broken in the wind, and maybe a cow had knocked over the hay bales. Anyone could mislay a pail. It didn’t mean that there was some malevolent force around. Children’s imaginations were bound to run riot as the nights drew in and the shadows grew darker, yet that unease she’d felt before when Megan had written to her about the dead bird still persisted … She might write to the couple just to check, and she wouldn’t let Ruby read this in case it worried her.

  ‘I expect you’re hungry,’ she said now. ‘Why don’t I make us something to eat – we could have some Spam sandwiches with a bit of Branston pickle.’

  Ruby looked up from Michael’s letter. ‘Yes please.’ She paused. ‘How is Megan? Is she all right?’ Her eyes were keen.

  Rita cursed herself for forgetting how much Ruby loved her daughter – clearly she had picked up that there was something wrong. ‘She says the hens aren’t laying as much,’ she replied brightly, refusing to let any fear enter her voice. ‘She doesn’t say much else, not nearly as much as Michael. Here, pass me that plate.’

  She noticed with relief that her diversionary tactic had worked and Ruby let the subject lie. But Rita couldn’t quell a growing sense of unease, as if someone, somewhere, was a potential threat to her children.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  On Wednesday morning Rita was singing to herself. The day had dawned cold but fine, with a breeze coming in off the Mersey, and she decided to make the most of her morning off by getting stuck into the pile of washing that needed to be done. Now she had lifted the heavy laundry basket full of dripping clothes into the back yard. All she needed to do was put up the washing line and then she could peg them all out. The yard was too small to keep the line up all the time – she’d risk running into it when she put the boxes out. So she took the looped end and strung it diagonally across the cramped space, stood on a few broken bricks to reach the sturdy nail in the wall, and hung it taut.

  She fastened the old canvas peg bag around her waist and picked up the first of the wet clothes, a worn-out blouse she had had since Megan was a baby. Its polka-dot pattern had faded over the years, but it fitted her properly again now she’d lost so much weight. She couldn’t afford to throw it out; it would be difficult to replace. It would do for another year or two yet if she was careful. She gave it a gentle wring, twisting it firmly, and feeling her chapped hands protest at the action. Then she shook out the creases and pegged it on to the line.

  Next came a dowdy skirt that Ruby had brought when she’d arrived last Christmas. Already that was nine months ago. Heaven knew how old it was, and Rita couldn’t remember when that style had been fashionable, if it ever had been. It was a dull brown and she wouldn’t have chosen it in a month of Sundays. Ruby however didn’t seem to mind what she wore, as happy with this as Sarah’s castoffs, and at least it would be warm. Its stiff fabric was hard to twist and so it was still dripping all over Rita as she reached to hang it up.

  One by one she lifted the clothes and strung them along the old rope line, hoping that today wouldn’t be the day it finally chose to break. It was fraying in several places but she’d never found the time to replace it. She would have to do it soon, and before the real winter took hold, as they would all be wearin
g heavier clothes, which held the water more and weighed down the line. Wiping her chilly hands on the peg bag, she turned to fetch the long wooden pole with which she propped the line up higher. It was leaning against her makeshift roof, which sheltered the flattened cardboard boxes. As she did so she thought she heard a noise but didn’t bother to look, assuming it was the stiff breeze dislodging the little pile of broken bricks in the opposite corner.

  She hadn’t intended to take today off, but the hospital had recognised that she had worked so many extra hours after the recent bombing that she deserved to swap a shift. She was delighted – she hadn’t done it for the reward, but it was good to know that her work had been noticed and appreciated. Maybe she would go into the city centre later and see if Nancy wanted to go shopping. They could look for something for Megan, to keep her warm in the winter. Rita sighed. She never had time to make her daughter anything, but Dolly had promised to knit her a scarf from some wool she’d come by in one of her make-do-and-mend classes, and if there was enough left over she might manage a little hat as well. Rita chuckled to herself as she imagined her daughter’s happy face when she saw her presents.

  Suddenly she was aware of somebody behind her and, before she could think of who it could be, she felt something cold and sharp at her throat. Then she was being dragged backwards. A hand was over her mouth so she couldn’t scream, although she was so shocked by the abruptness of what was happening that she hadn’t even thought to call for help.

  ‘Don’t try anything funny, Rita,’ said a voice against her ear, and her heart sank. Charlie, back after all that time. ‘This isn’t a joke. Don’t try anything clever, or this blade goes straight in.’

  Rita gave a little whimper of fright but it was muffled by his hand.

  ‘You stay quiet and maybe you won’t get hurt,’ he said, almost at the open back door now. ‘You and me are going inside. I’ve got unfinished business here today and you’ve made the mistake of staying around where you’re not wanted.’ He dragged her over the threshold, bruising her heels on the step, and shoved her violently to the floor, standing over her waving the knife. ‘You should’ve gone running off to your little hospital as usual, do-gooder that you are.’ He spat in contempt.

  At first she was too frightened even to look at him, but when she did she saw he was much thinner than when she’d last seen him, back in December when she’d rescued the children after he’d taken them away from her. He was unkempt, his thinning hair ragged, the horrible moustache of which he’d been so proud now untrimmed and his chin stubbly. Gone were his dapper clothes. Now he looked filthy. He was almost unrecognisable from the suave insurance salesman he’d been before the war, who had treated her so cruelly and then left her high and dry. She tried to think how to persuade him to leave her alone, but there was a frantic energy about him and she didn’t want him to lose control, not with that sharp blade so close to her face.

  Somehow she had to try, although she was almost too scared to think straight. ‘Charlie,’ she began in barely more than a whisper. ‘Charlie,’ she tried again, her voice stronger this time. ‘Look, you don’t have to use that knife. Just tell me what you want, I’ll help you if I can.’

  ‘Help? Since when were you any help?’ His voice was full of bitter sarcasm. ‘You were a useless wife and mother. If you’d been any good, I wouldn’t be where I am now, so don’t bother offering.’

  Rita knew she had to keep going, keep him talking. She remembered how violent he could be, the times he’d hit her, the marks she’d had to hide. ‘So why are you back now? Are you home for good?’

  ‘Oh you’d love that, wouldn’t you.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Welcome me back with open arms, would you? I don’t think so. I can do better than you any time. Just because that cow Elsie did the dirty on me doesn’t mean I have to come back to you. It’s not as if you were ever a loving little wife, is it?’ He leered at her and she drew back against the floor, the cold of the tiles seeping into her bones.

  ‘I always tried to be a good wife to you,’ she gasped. ‘I wanted our marriage to work, you know I did.’

  He crouched down to her and nicked the blade against her leg almost playfully, catching her woollen stocking and cutting a slice through it. ‘A good wife,’ he mocked. ‘Well, let me tell you something. I’ve seen what you get up to in the back yard, whore that you are. And I don’t spend all my time around Bootle, I like to roam around a bit. Guess where I go.’

  ‘Wh-where?’ She could hardly form the word.

  ‘I get this overwhelming urge to go to the country sometimes,’ he went on, in a horrible parody of a singsong, storytelling voice. ‘I go out to Lancashire, little place called Freshfield.’

  She shut her eyes.

  ‘Look at me, Rita. Like a good little wife.’ He drew the blade along her leg, deeper this time. She flinched at the pain. ‘There’s a farm out there, all wholesome it is. They let the kids run wild there, all hours of the day and night, no supervision at all. Sometimes I stay to watch them.’

  Rita gasped. The shadow man. Charlie was the shadow man. He’d been spying on the children and doing it for months.

  ‘I’d say that little girl is the spitting image of her dad,’ he went on.

  ‘Megan’s your daughter, Charlie,’ Rita couldn’t resist snapping back, more wounded by his refusal to use her name than by the mounting agony in her leg.

  ‘But the boy doesn’t look like me one bit,’ he continued. ‘Funny that, isn’t it? I used to wonder sometimes when he was little, but now he’s getting bigger it’s clear as daylight. Looks like his mother, there’s no doubt about that. But who’s his father? That’s what I’d like to know. Now I’ve seen what a whore you are as well. If anything happened to that boy, who’d be sorry?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rita gasped, frantic he would make good on his threat and hurt Michael. ‘Charlie, don’t be daft, you’re imagining things. Michael looks like me and Megan looks like you, that’s how it’s always been.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, Rita, only you don’t seem to be listening. What do I have to do to make you listen?’ He slashed at her leg again, faster this time, and blood began to pool on the old tiles, catching in the grouting where it was uneven because she’d scrubbed it so often.

  ‘I’m listening, Charlie, I’m listening,’ she breathed, pale with pain and terror.

  ‘I don’t think you are, Rita. You’ve made a fool of me all these years.’ His eyes were wild. ‘You and that cow Elsie, and now you’ve got that daft idiot she used to have following her round living here. Where’s that creature? Am I going to have to take care of her too?’ He waved the knife at her throat once more.

  ‘N … no. Leave Ruby out of it,’ Rita insisted, fear for her friend lending her the energy to fight back. ‘She’s upstairs, she can’t get around, she’s got a broken leg. She can’t get down the stairs on her own.’

  ‘Good.’ He shifted position from his crouch to a low stoop. ‘Well now, what am I going to do with you? Still want to be a good wife, do you?’ Suddenly he reached forward and shoved his hand down her jumper, twisting her breast, causing her to scream in pain. ‘What, don’t you like it? You used to. Not such a willing wife now after all, are you?’ He twisted again and she screamed once more.

  ‘What’s going on?’ The inside door to the shop opened and Winnie came through; she’d been minding the premises while Rita had hung out the washing.

  Charlie swung around and got to his feet as Rita tried to rearrange her clothing, wincing in agony. ‘What’s she doing here? You said she always worked on Wednesdays?’ He glared at his mother. ‘How can I collect the stuff if she’s hanging around?’

  Winnie didn’t even bother to glance at Rita huddled on the floor with the blood spreading around her. ‘I put up that sign we agreed so you’d know not to come. My old red vase on the windowsill. You should have waited.’

  ‘I came in round the back – you should have put the vase in the window round there,’ he sna
rled. ‘Now look what I’ve got to sort out.’ He stood over Rita and lashed out with a kick, making her double up and groan.

  ‘Leave her and just take the food,’ said Winnie bluntly. ‘The longer you’re here, the riskier it is.’ She tottered a little, unsteady on her thin legs.

  ‘Yes, but how do we know she’ll stay quiet?’ Charlie glared at his wife, who was trying not to make any more noise, but who couldn’t help whimpering at the pain.

  ‘Shut her in the cellar then,’ Winnie said brutally. ‘That’ll give you time to get away.’

  ‘I … I won’t say anything,’ Rita gasped.

  ‘You’d better not. If you do I’ll be back here to cut your throat,’ Charlie hissed, watching Rita’s face, enjoying the look of fear in her eyes that she couldn’t hide. ‘Or maybe I’ll do something to hurt you even more. How about if I went out to Freshfield and showed those kids what I can do with my knife? How would you like that? If I got rid of that boy who you said was my son, who I’ve paid for all his life, when he was just a bastard and nothing to do with me at all? How would you like that, eh? Then you’d know him being killed was all your fault and you’d have to live with that for the rest of your life.’ He smiled at the idea. ‘That would hurt, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’ Rita sat up in horror, despite the agony in her leg, stomach and breast. ‘You wouldn’t hurt Michael!’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ He leered at her, loving her fear. ‘I’ve nothing to lose. He’s not mine, I know it, and nothing you can say will persuade me different. He’s nothing to me, I wouldn’t miss him. You would, though, wouldn’t you, Rita? You always loved those brats more than you loved me. Obvious from day one, that was. Well now you can miss him good and proper, because if you say one word he’ll be gone for ever and I’ll make sure it hurts him as well.’