After lifting Heather into her high chair and tucking a bib about the baby’s neck, she began to feed her the soft hash from her own little dish and let her mind drift away from her mother’s nagging. Despite her ignorance so far as baby care was concerned, the nine-month-old was doing well. She’d sat up at six months, and was now showing every sign of wanting to walk. Precious little Heather had been successfully weaned and was doing well with her eating, though she did have a tendency to fling her dish on to the floor if she didn’t care for whatever was on offer, or grew bored with the process. Today, she seemed to approve of the mush she was eating, which was a great relief. Feeding spoonfuls to the baby as she ate her own food, Cathie focused her thoughts upon her happy news.
The biggest worry she and Alex faced was where they would live when they did marry. The idea of moving in with her mother as newly-weds was too dreadful to contemplate, even supposing Rona would agree to such an idea. Cathie had already made a few enquiries about finding a house to rent, so far with no luck. So many homes had been destroyed by the bombing that they were in very short supply. ‘Homes for Heroes’ they’d been promised by the government, but there was little sign of any so far, apart from a few prefabs. She could but hope something would turn up soon.
Everything would work out just fine, she was sure of it. Father Christmas was about to deliver the best present possible by sending Alex home to her. Now she would give her fiancé the best present she had to offer, her love forever, and a beautiful ready-made family to start their wonderful life together.
CHAPTER TWO
The next day being a Saturday, Cathie set off early to Campfield Market, intent upon making a start on her preparations for Christmas. Most of their food was purchased from the local Co-op where she could benefit from an annual dividend and other special offers. At Christmas they would allow customers a little extra sugar, butter and a tin of condensed milk. But she still loved to visit the market for bargains.
Cathie had carefully written out a list, which included little gifts to put in crackers and some sticky strips to make paper chains. She already had a box of Christmas tree baubles and ornaments that she and Sal had collected over the years, many of them home-made. Later, Cathie meant to buy a small tree, which she would decorate. Right now she must find the right ingredients to start cooking. Dried fruit for mincemeat and a Christmas cake, dried egg, prunes or dried apricots, spices and vanilla essence to make everything taste good, and ground rice for some mock marzipan. Hopefully there’d be an end to rationing soon, but while it continued, this would not be an easy task; so the sooner she started searching, the better.
The food shops and stalls were mainly in the top section between Tonman Street and Liverpool Road, and that was where she headed first. A brisk wind made her tighten the scarf about her neck, sending scraps of grubby paper bags and rotting cabbage leaves flying everywhere. But the baby was tucked up safe and warm in her pram with the hood up and the apron clipped in place over the blankets.
Cathie decided she would try ordering a goose from one of the butchers, although sometimes it was better to come to the market late, just before it closed as prices were cheaper then. The problem with that was there might not be anything left, and Cathie really had no wish to make do with another mock goose comprised mainly of lentils and onions. If this was to be the best Christmas ever, to celebrate Alex’s homecoming, genuine poultry was essential.
Cathie loved exploring the market, with its huge iron girders arching across the roof beneath a range of dusty windows, the supporting pillars beautifully decorated with red roses in patriotic honour of Lancashire. She would lovingly stroke a hand over one as she passed by, as if to bring herself luck, something she still felt in need of despite the war being over. Outdoor stalls jostled for space from here on Tonman Street right across to Deansgate, many of them piled high with second-hand goods, as anything new and cheap was quite rare with rationing still in place.
As always the market was heaving with people: harassed mothers scolding their children for wandering off, old men in flat caps and mufflers huddled together by the hot baked potato cart, no doubt busily putting the world to rights. Perhaps discussing how the General Election in July had brought a Labour landslide with Clement Attlee now Prime Minister in place of Churchill. The terrible bombs that had been dropped since on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the fact Britain was pretty well stony broke.
Nevertheless, morale remained high, despite the threat of austerity and restrictions growing ever tighter as young men returned from the war. It was true that ex-servicemen were not always in one piece, or a happy state of mind, often damaged either physically or mentally. But families were delighted to see their loved ones safely home.
Cathie could barely wait to see Alex again.
She studied various grocery, vegetable and biscuit stalls, happily pausing to watch a man in a bowler hat cleverly juggling pots, pans and plates, appearing to let one fall then easily catching it in order to gain people’s attention. ‘I’m not asking five shillings. I’m not asking one shilling. I’m not even asking sixpence. A threepenny bit and this beautiful plate is yours,’ he shouted to the large crowd gathered about his stall.
Smiling at his showmanship, Cathie queued at her favourite butcher’s stall, where she was a regular customer, and bought a few sausages for tea. He gladly took her order for a goose, offering to give it priority once he heard that her fiancé was returning from the war.
‘Can’t promise it’ll be big, mind, but I’ll do my best, and let you know if I don’t find one.’
Thanking him, Cathie moved on to the Maypole Dairy, which sold margarine, butter, cheese and bacon, also nuts and dried fruit. Checking her purse, she made a mental note to choose with care, as she certainly couldn’t afford to buy everything at once. But after careful browsing, and a very helpful shop assistant, Cathie purchased the necessary ingredients to at least bake a Christmas cake. She’d worry about the mock almond paste, icing sugar and mince tarts later.
Having finished her shopping and carefully negotiating the pram between the crowds of shoppers, Cathie went to meet up with her two best friends for a snack at the market café, as they loved to do on a Saturday. After greeting each other with hugs and a few moans about the cold weather, the three of them gave their orders then sat drinking tea together while Cathie told her good news.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ Brenda said, instantly sharing her friend’s excitement.
‘When does he arrive?’ Davina politely enquired.
Davina Gibson, who worked on a second-hand clothes stall, was new to the area, having moved into Castlefield just a couple of months ago. Cathie had met her while buying some clothes for baby Heather. She’d been sympathetic of her loss, and so helpful in allowing Cathie to negotiate a low price on everything she needed, they’d become firm friends ever since. Brenda Stuart, on the other hand, was a best friend of some years’ standing, as she and Cathie had been in the same class at school all those years ago, and worked together at the rubber factory producing tyres for motor cars, army vehicles and trucks.
Both these women had been left widowed by the war, as had so many others. Davina was something of a beauty with her voluptuous figure, long dark hair, green eyes beneath winged brows, and full lips. While dear Brenda claimed to be a plain country girl with scraggy brown hair, plump figure and puffy cheeks. But her round face nearly always wore a smile, and there’d generally be a twinkle in her downward-sloping dark eyes.
‘I’m not sure, but in time for Christmas, or so he hopes. It’s so exciting. I can hardly wait to see him again.’
‘Have you set a date for the wedding?’ Davina asked, the corner of her mouth twisting into what might pass for a smile. She wasn’t the most exuberant or lively friend Cathie might have hoped for, being slightly cool and distant. Whatever she’d suffered during the war had clearly badly affected her.
‘Not yet, but I know Alex is keen for us to marry as soon as possible.’
‘I do hope I receive an invitation,’ Brenda said, eyes sparkling at the prospect.
‘If and when it happens,’ Davina added.
‘Of course it will happen, fairly soon, I hope. How would you both feel about being bridesmaids? I have some lengths of parachute silk, which Mam managed to buy cheap from the mill. It has one or two flaws in it, which is disastrous for a parachute, but will scarcely show in a dress. We could sew them together.’
Brenda whooped with joy. ‘That would be wonderful, so long as you teach me how. Never was much good at sewing but I’m willing to learn.’
Looking slightly stunned by this request, Davina murmured, ‘Oh, that is so kind of you to ask me, Cathie, but I’m not sure I could cope with attending a wedding so soon after losing my own husband.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that. I’ve no wish to upset you.’
‘When and how did you lose him, darling?’ Brenda asked. ‘You never did tell us.’
Davina’s lips tightened. ‘I don’t care to speak of it.’
‘Ah, I can fully sympathise with that feeling,’ Brenda agreed. ‘Painful things have happened in my life that I cannot bear to remember either. I’ve locked them in a box in my mind, never to open them again. However, sometimes it helps to talk.’ When no response came, Brenda leaned over the pram to tickle the baby’s nose, making her giggle. ‘So what about this little one, Cathie? Have you told Alex that you now think of her as your own?’
‘No, not yet,’ Cathie admitted with some reluctance. ‘I told him of Sal’s death and that we were safe, of course, but didn’t go into any details about her child.’
‘Why ever not?’
Taking a bite of the cheese rarebit the waitress had just brought her, Cathie took her time to chew on it for a moment before answering. Her old friend knew her better than most, how she tended to be far too cautious and wary of making a mistake in life. She’d been this way ever since watching her parents’ marriage collapse after years of rows. Having Sal to cuddle her close in bed as they listened to them yelling and screaming at each other had been the only way to deal with her misery. The sisters had made a pact never to involve themselves in these arguments, and never to discuss what they’d heard.
Giving a pragmatic shrug, she said, ‘Letters to the Front need to be upbeat and cheerful. Mine to Alex were generally asking how he was coping, and chatting a little about myself, which was what he wanted to hear. I put in no bad news that might depress him. Besides, like Davina, I’d no wish to talk about Sal’s death.’
Davina said, ‘Keeping silent about painful subjects may be commonplace in these difficult times, but being open and honest with Alex about what you hope to do for the baby is surely very necessary.’
‘I’m afraid she has a point there,’ Brenda agreed. ‘Did he never ask about the child?’
Cathie frowned, struggling to remember. It had indeed been painful, a time of complete anguish. The weeks following Sal’s death had passed in something of a blur, almost as if she were locked behind a pane of frosted glass and not part of the real world at all. ‘I don’t think he did. But then I’m not certain I ever mentioned that she’d given birth to a daughter, as Heather was barely a month old when her mummy died. My memory of that time is very hazy. Then Mam kept putting me off, insisting it wasn’t right to dump this problem upon him when he had enough to deal with fighting a war.’
‘I’m sure he did have enough on his plate,’ Davina agreed. ‘Still, he does need to know, so the sooner you tell him the better.’
‘I’m ashamed to say that the longer I left it, the harder it became to broach the subject. I could never quite find the courage, and finally decided it would be better to wait and tell him in person, once he is home and can see for himself how adorable she is.’
Smiling down at the baby, Brenda gave her cheek a gentle stroke. ‘You might be right. She certainly is adorable, how could anyone resist her?’
‘Mam is not convinced Alex ever will accept her, which is absolute nonsense. He’s a real gentleman, so why wouldn’t he?’
‘Men can be a bit sniffy about such matters, certainly where children are concerned,’ Davina pointed out, rubbing a hand over her face, which Cathie noticed was suddenly looking rather pale and strained. What other problems did she have? she wondered. Her new friend’s past life was something of a mystery as she was reluctant to speak of the war, not unusual these days. Even so, Cathie had made several attempts to ask Davina about her past, where she’d lived before, what job she’d done, and what had happened to her. But for some reason she always avoided answering such questions. And, as she was still grieving for the loss of her husband, Cathie had decided not to pursue the matter for fear of upsetting her further. Their shared grief was what had cemented their friendship in the first place. Just as her own reluctance not to keep going over Sal’s death was perhaps the main reason why she had neglected to tell Alex the whole story.
Brenda, however, was the absolute opposite. Despite having lived in France during the German occupation, and becoming one of many British women arrested and confined, apparently for no other reason than her nationality, she firmly believed that talking about problems helped you to cope better. Even so, Cathie was aware of occasions when Brenda too would clam shut and find it impossible to speak of past pain, as she herself had just admitted.
‘I do agree that Alex must be told soon. Once he’s settled in, I’ll explain everything,’ Cathie said, with a smile that appeared more confident than she actually felt.
‘I think you should write and tell him now,’ Davina suggested. ‘If he’s going to be this child’s father, you’ll surely need his agreement and support in order to achieve that wish, or it won’t ever happen.’
These words had a disconcerting effect upon Cathie. It was kind of Davina to be so concerned for her, although echoing her mother’s negative comments was not exactly what she’d wished to hear. Poor Davina’s expression was looking even more pinched and doleful, perhaps because she was facing the prospect of life with no hope of a child of her own, as her husband had not survived the war. So many atrocities, so much grief. Cathie had to confess that the timing of Sal’s death couldn’t have been worse, not only because the war had been in the process of coming to an end, but as she herself was about to be married.
Brenda gently patted her hand. ‘I can understand that you might feel a little nervous about telling Alex of your wish to keep Sal’s child, but be brave, darling. He loves you, so not for a moment do I imagine he’ll refuse to accept her.’
‘Oh, you are so right, he does.’ Her worries and sadness dissolved as joy ricocheted within once again. With no one ever expressing any love for her but Sally, Cathie could hardly believe her good fortune. ‘And he is such a kind man.’
‘There you are then, no problem,’ Brenda said, kissing a cheek damp with the odd stray tear.
Davina put her arms around Cathie to give her a hug that felt just a little stiff and awkward. ‘Please know that I’m here to offer support too, should this Alex give you any problems.’
‘Thank you so much! You are both such good friends to me. Not that I think I will need your help, as I have every faith in him.’ The baby began to whimper and squirm, and Cathie got quickly to her feet. ‘Now, I really must go and see to some food for this little madam.’
Brenda jumped up too. ‘I’ll walk back with you, darling, at least as far as my gloomy little bedsit.’ And, saying their goodbyes, the pair walked off, Cathie oddly aware of Davina standing watching for some time as she wheeled the pram away. Something was troubling the girl, but she couldn’t make out quite what it could be.
CHAPTER THREE
Over the coming days and weeks, Cathie continued to work hard at the factory as well as take care of the baby. She also busied herself with cleaning and tidying the house from top to bottom, much to her mother’s irritation as she was moved from room to room, not offering to even lift a duster to help. Buying a pot of brown paint from
the ironmonger, Cathie gave all the doors a quick coat, hoping the landlord would not object. But, as they’d been bombed out of their own home, and were now renting in a ramshackle street in a rather poor area of Castlefield, Cathie was anxious for the house to look as respectable as possible when Alex arrived home. She felt rather pleased with the result, and proud of herself for having picked up quite a few skills over these last years.
‘It costs very little to at least be clean,’ said her Aunt Evie, not for the first time when Cathie popped in to fill her in on what was happening, and ask her advice. Her aunt too had suffered a horrible war, not least by the fact her children had been evacuated.
‘Your Uncle Donald hasn’t been demobbed yet, although no longer a POW. He’s undergoing some help, or so I’m told, by the Resettlement Service or whatever they call themselves. But my little ones will be home soon too,’ she said, cuddling baby Heather on her lap. ‘Not that they’ll be little any more, and goodness knows what they’ll think when they see me again. I’ve turned into a real old crow.’
‘Don’t be silly, they adore you,’ Cathie said with a smile. Evie, her father’s younger sister, was very maternal, the kind of mother Cathie would have loved to have. ‘So when do you think I should tell Alex about little Heather?’
Her aunt considered the question with a frown. ‘Not easy to answer. Judge your moment when it feels right. Believe in yourself, sweetie.’
It felt like good advice, and surely her courage and sense of independence had increased throughout this long war. Or had it all vanished again with the loss of dear Sal? Uncertainty and panic swelled in her, which yet again had to be quelled as Cathie resolutely devoted the entire afternoon to baking a Christmas cake, and thinking positive thoughts about the future. It was admittedly rather plain but at least it had real fruit in it and not just prunes, as was the case last year. Wrapping it in greaseproof paper and storing it in a cake tin, she hid it safely away on a top shelf in the larder where Rona wouldn’t find it. Next, she set about making paper chains and tiny Chinese-type lanterns, which she strung up around the front parlour.
Home Is Where the Heart Is Page 2