by Annie Groves
Whilst they worked Luke kept a weather eye out for his father, knowing that the Salvage Corps would be deployed to work on the worst of the damaged and collapsing buildings because of their great experience in this field.
A pigeon that had been watching from the top of the high wall on the opposite side of the road from where they were working – the wall all that remained of what had been a large warehouse –suddenly flew off at speed, its departure followed by a brick falling from the top of the wall.
Immediately Luke warned his men, ‘Get back, the wall’s going to go.’
The men looked unconvinced but Luke hadn’t listened to his dad’s tales of his work in the Salvage Corps all his growing years without learning a thing or two, and he knew very well what the single falling brick might mean, even if the others didn’t.
‘Get back,’ he repeated.
‘Give over, Corp,’ Andy grinned. ‘If the Luftwaffe can’t knock it down then a ruddy pigeon …’
His words were lost in the dull rumbling sound that filled the air along with the choking mist of brick and cement dust as the wall collapsed down on top of itself.
The men were moving now, but Andy was closer to the wall than the others, and one of the falling bricks caught him squarely between the shoulder blades, sending him sprawling.
Luke could feel the bricks hitting his own body as he turned back to grab hold of Andy, and drag him clear of the collapsing wall.
Another group of men who had been working close by, and who had heard the wall collapse, came hurrying to their assistance, the sergeant with them, taking charge and doing an immediate roll call.
‘You’re a ruddy hero, that’s what you are, mate,’ Andy told Luke emotionally. ‘I’d have bin a gonner then if you hadn’t turned back to help me.’
Luke brushed his gratitude aside, but much to his embarrassment the sergeant insisted on being told exactly what had happened.
‘I owe you one, mate,’ Andy thanked him gratefully.
‘Then another time when I say jump, make sure you jump,’ Luke told him grimly, ‘because next time you might not get so lucky.’
‘What do you mean, he’s your second cousin from off the West Derby Road’s boy? I’ve never heard you mention any second cousin from off the West Derby Road.’
Very little natural daylight managed to work its way into any of the rooms of number eleven Walsingham Close, but especially the downstairs best parlour, with its carefully polished aspidistra, its sombre dark brown furniture and its heavy dull red velvet curtains, all of which belonged to the late Victorian age and had been passed down from Emily’s father’s parents to Emily’s father, and from him to Emily herself. In fact, nothing inside the house had been altered or moved in any way since Emily’s own childhood.
The Turkey carpets bought by her grandparents still covered the floors in the best and second-best parlours, a matching stair runner still covered the flight of stairs leading from the hall to the first floor, turned regularly by Emily and the cleaner to make sure that no one part of it wore more than any other, whilst a plainer more serviceable runner covered the landing and the stairs up to the second floor.
In the best parlour, silver-framed photographs of Emily’s parents and their parents still took pride of place on the carefully polished mahogany sideboard, whilst the dull green wallpaper had been put up when her proud grandparents had moved into their new smart villa in the exclusive enclave of Wavertree Village.
Wavertree Village was still considered exclusive– or at least the part of it where Emily lived – and the people who lived there did not mingle with those who lived in less favoured streets – or even with their own neighbours. Mingling was simply something that was not ‘done’ in Walsingham Close.
However, Emily could still see Con’s expression despite the dull thin December light. It was a mixture of truculence, anger and disbelief, but Emily ignored it. Rather surprisingly, she was, she discovered, actually enjoying lying to him and then acting as though he was the one who was in the wrong. Of course, it helped that he hadn’t returned home until almost lunchtime and still smelling of drink and cheap perfume. That had definitely given her the upper hand when it had come to informing him that from now on the boy would be living with them.
The boy himself was upstairs in his bedroom where Emily had told him to stay, until she came up for him. She had made the room as comfortable as possible for him, lighting a fire in the grate and leaving him a bacon sandwich. She had used the bacon she had bought on the black market, and which she had been saving for Con’s Sunday morning breakfast treat. A husband who stayed out all night even if he ‘explained’ that he had had no choice because of the air raid, did not deserve what amounted to a family of four’s whole ration of rashers for a week, along with a nice bit of sausage and a couple of eggs, all supplied via the friend of a friend of the man who delivered their coal, and at an extortionate cost.
The kitchen was really Emily’s favourite room in the house. She had happy memories of the hours she had spent there watching Mrs Evans, who had come in daily as a housekeeper to her father, cooking and baking, and then when she was older learning from her and being allowed to ‘help’.
Mrs Evans had died four years ago, but right up until her death Emily had visited her twice a week in her little house close to the Edge Hill railway goods yard, taking her little treats and making sure that she was all right, even though Con had complained about her spending money on a ‘servant’. Mrs Evans had been more to her than that. And besides, Emily’s father had been very stern about their duty to treat those they employed ‘well’.
One of the aspidistra’s leaves wasn’t quite straight. Automatically Emily removed a clean duster from the pocket of her apron and went to straighten and wipe it, ignoring Con’s irritation.
Whilst she wiped the leaf, Emily rather marvelled at her own inventive ability and the way she had conjured up out of nowhere her younger, much younger, cousin twice removed, who had disgraced herself by marrying a merchant seaman against her family’s wishes. At a single stroke and without a twinge of guilt, Emily had between one breath and the next removed from the world of the living both of ‘cousin Jenny’s parents’, her father via an accident involving the blackout and a tram, shortly after Jenny’s undesirable marriage, and her mother from the shock of losing her husband.
Exhilarated by this success, Emily had gone on to inform Con that after her parents’ deaths Jenny had written to her begging her for help.
‘The poor girl had not only lost her parents, she had also been informed that her husband had been listed as missing at sea, presumed drowned,’ Emily informed Con, adding that she had often visited Jenny in the shabby boarding house close to the docks where she had been living, and that was how she had got to know Jenny’s little boy.
‘Jenny made me promise that if anything should happen to her I would take Tommy in. She’d even told Tommy that herself, but you still could have knocked me down with a feather when this police constable turned up last night to say that the house had been bombed and that Jenny’s last words had been that Tommy was to come to me.’ She embroidered her story now, returning her duster to her pocket and then removing it again when she spotted a few specks of dust on the mahogany-framed mirror that hung over the marble fireplace.
‘Well, if you ask me she’d got no right foisting her kid off on us. Kids are expensive, and we aren’t made of money.’
‘It’s my duty, Con, and I’d never be able to live with myself if I turned the boy away. Mind you, I know what you mean about the expense.’
Con’s face brightened and Emily almost found it in her heart to feel slightly sorry for him. Almost.
‘We could easily cancel them two new suits you’ve got on order, and there’s no need for you to go on running a car. You could walk to the theatre from here, or catch a bus.’
‘Now hold on a minute, Emily. I need that car, you know that. We both agreed that it wouldn’t look good for the theatre if I
was to be seen dropping me standards.’
‘No, Con, we did not both agree. You told me, just as I am now telling you that the boy stays.’
Con looked at her, and then gave her his most charming and coaxing smile, coming towards her and reaching for her hand. Emily let him take it, even though the sensation of him holding it between her own in a gesture of mock tenderness, reminded her of all those other times when he had used his charm and her vulnerability to it, his lack of feeling for her and her excess of it for him, to blandish and bully her into giving way to him. But not this time. This time she had something far more worthwhile to fight for than Con’s nonexistent love. This time she wasn’t fighting for herself, she was fighting for the boy.
Baffled as well as irritated by the fact that within such a short space of time his normally easy-to-manipulate wife had somehow conducted a campaign in which he had been well and truly routed, Con retreated behind a wall of sulky silence, which he had to break himself after ten minutes of being totally ignored by Emily to tell her in an aggrieved voice, ‘If you’re not going to listen to reason then I might as well go back to the theatre.’
‘Yes, you might,’ Emily agreed unperturbed, mentally planning to take the boy straight down to one of the WVS rest centres as soon as Con had gone so that she could buy him enough secondhand clothes to tide him over until she could get him something decent. She could do with seeing that coal man as well. She was going to need some decent food to fatten the boy up a bit, rationing or no rationing, and if Con made a fuss about it, well, then she’d make a fuss about that car of his, and they’d see which one of them won!
SIX
‘Well, Katie, how are you settling in?’
Katie smiled politely at the supervisor, who had called her over to the raised table overlooking the rows of desks where the girls worked.
It was still early – not yet nine o’clock – and Miss Foster had the supervisors’ desk to herself.
‘I’m really enjoying the work, Miss Foster,’ Katie answered truthfully.
Miss Foster – Frosty Foster, as the others had nicknamed her – inclined her head.
She was taller than Katie, and very slim, thin almost, with sharp narrow shoulders and long hands that were unexpectedly large. Her hair was mousy brown and cut in a neat bob, her eyes a pale icy blue.
Typically, Carole said that it was no wonder she had never married. ‘She’d freeze a chap with one look,’ she had giggled.
No one was quite sure how old Miss Foster was, although Carole had said that she must be in her thirties. Like Katie, Miss Foster had been recruited into her censorship post, and had not come to it, as so many of the girls had, from the original staff employed by Littlewoods.
Carole claimed that because of this the supervisor looked down on them, and there had been several small clashes between them, with Miss Foster trying to impose her authority on Carole, and Carole deliberately flouting it by pretending she hadn’t heard Miss Foster’s instructions. Carole defended her rebelliousness by saying that she wasn’t having Miss Foster bossing her about, but Anne had warned Carole to be careful, pointing out that whilst she was currently getting away with her behaviour it would not have gone unnoticed, and could rebound on her.
‘It’s obvious that Frosty Foster thinks she’s better than us, and I’m not putting up with that,’ Carole had told Katie.
‘Well, I suppose in one way she is, since she’s our supervisor,’ Katie had felt bound to point out.
‘No, I don’t mean that kind of better,’ Carole had told her. ‘I mean, you know, she thinks she’s “better” than us. Just look at the way she walks around like she’s got a bad smell under her nose.’
Katie knew what Carole meant and now she felt a small burn of anxiety as the supervisor looked at her for a minute before saying pointedly, ‘I would caution you, Katie, in your own interests, to be on your guard against certain of your fellow workers, some of whom do not take their responsibilities as seriously as I can see that you do. I shall not mention any names, but I think you can guess to whom I refer.’
Katie knew that Miss Foster must be referring to Carole but of course she didn’t say so.
‘A certain person could well find herself looking for work more suited to her nature before too long, unless she mends her ways,’ Miss Foster continued.
Katie wanted to defend her friend and tell the supervisor that, despite her outwardly careless manner, there was another side to Carole. She had shown Katie nothing but kindness, and was always ready to explain something that Katie didn’t understand and to answer her questions, but Katie knew as well that Carole had deliberately gone out of her way to bait and provoke the supervisor.
‘Don’t be led into trouble yourself out of loyalty to a friend,’ Miss Foster warned Katie, dismissing her with a brisk nod.
‘What was old Frosty Face saying to you then?’ Carole, who had arrived at work whilst the supervisor was still talking to Katie, asked once she had returned to their desk.
Katie hated having to be deceitful, but she could hardly tell Carole the truth and say that Miss Foster had been warning her against becoming too friendly with Carole herself.
‘Nothing much,’ she answered, but she knew that she was blushing guiltily as she did so.
‘Do you reckon the Luftwaffe will be over again tonight?’ someone further down the table asked worriedly, changing the conversation, much to Katie’s relief.
‘I hope not,’ Anne answered.
‘Me too.’ Carole smothered a yawn. ‘I need me kip in a proper bed. I haven’t got over Saturday night at the Grafton yet, and tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.
‘Do you fancy coming down the Grafton with me again tomorrow night, Katie?’ she asked.
‘I can’t,’ Katie told her. ‘I’ve already said that I’ll go to midnight mass with the Campions.’
Carole pulled a face. ‘I suppose I’ll have to try and get me cousin to go with me then, only she’s courting now and doesn’t want to go anywhere without her chap. I was hoping that them army lads might be there again, especially that Andy, the handsome fair-haired one,’ she added wistfully.
‘I thought this time last year that it would all be over quickly, but look at us now: we’ve been at war over a year and no end anywhere near in sight,’ Jean sighed.
She and Katie were hanging up the paper chains that Katie had patiently spent the afternoon repairing.
‘Mind you,’ Jean shook her head and laughed, ‘I was just remembering how our Luke had got leave from France without us knowing and arrived home whilst we were all at church. You should have seen the twins’ faces when they saw that the mince pies we’d left for Father Christmas had gone. Of course, it was Luke who had eaten them.’
‘It must have been a wonderful surprise to have him home,’ Katie smiled, deftly dabbing glue onto another of the torn paper links.
It was next to impossible now to buy new decorations, or even to buy brightly coloured paper in order to make them, because of the war. Paper of any kind was precious and not to be wasted.
‘Oh, yes, it was,’ Jean agreed. ‘I’m hoping that Luke will get leave this Christmas as well, even if it’s only for Christmas Day.’ Jean gave her young billetee a sympathetic look. ‘It will be hard for you, Katie, this being your first Christmas away from your parents.’
Katie didn’t say anything. Christmas had always been one of her father’s busiest times and Christmas Day had had to be planned around his work, so that Katie had never really known the kind of traditional Christmas Day that Jean’s children had obviously enjoyed, and whilst of course she knew she would miss her parents, a part of her was looking forward to experiencing Christmas Day at the Campions’ with almost childlike excitement and anticipation, although she felt too self-conscious to say as much.
‘There, I think this one will be long enough now,’ she told Jean, eyeing her handiwork.
The flames from the fire were sending out warm tongues of light that danced with the shadows,
the occasional hiss of a damp coal a familiar and homely sound.
The Government had increased everyone’s food ration for Christmas, and Katie had insisted on passing on her rations to Jean to go into the ‘family’ pot.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ she had insisted when Jean had protested.
Katie wasn’t a spendthrift, and the wages she earned for her work seemed like riches compared with the ‘pocket money’ her father had given her, and so she had been able to buy gifts for the Campions in return for their hospitality.
‘You’ve done a really good job on that, Katie,’ Jean approved, looking up from her own task of tying labels to the brightly wrapped Christmas presents spread out on the floor all around her, much of the paper carefully kept from the previous Christmas, as the war meant that paper was in short supply and could only be used sparingly. ‘And ever so quickly and neatly,’ she added with a warm smile. ‘If I’d have asked the twins we’d have ended up with glue everywhere and the paper chain in more of a state than it was before they started.’
‘I enjoyed doing it,’ Katie told her truthfully.
It was lovely and cosy with the fire lit, the paper streamers spread out on the floor adding an air of Christmas magic and excitement.
‘I’ll get the step ladders from under the stairs and we’ll make a start on getting them up. Oh, just listen to that.’ Jean looked up at the ceiling as they both heard the sound of the twins’ newest gramophone dance record coming down from their attic bedroom. ‘It’s just as well their dad isn’t here, otherwise he’d be going up there to tell them to turn it down.’
The music was one of the pacey new American dance tunes that were becoming so popular and Katie acknowledged that its rhythm was making her own feet itch to dance just a little, as she helped Jean with the step ladders, insisting that she should be the one to stand on them whilst Jean held the ladders.
Katie had secured one end of the first streamer to the room’s neat plain coving with two drawing pins, and they had moved the ladders over to the opposite corner of the room, only to discover that the garland might not quite reach it, when they both heard Grace’s voice calling out from the kitchen.