A Place To Call Home

by June Francis

  Harry whistled through his teeth. ‘You seem to know a blinkin’ lot about the law, lad! Now I’m having no more messing about … and if you’ve got any sense you’ll come quietly.’ He glanced at his daughter. ‘Wheel the cart into the yard and go through what’s there. Decide what you want to keep and get rid of the rest. You can tell your gran where I’ve gone.’

  ‘Hang on!’ said the youth, and he looked quite desperate. ‘Should you be letting her decide what to throw away? I know something about old things, vases … ornaments … letters. Even toys can be valuable. I mean my dad had a letter from Kitchener, himself. You’d be surprised what some things can be worth.’

  Harry stared at him and then surprised Greta and Rene by laughing. ‘Changed your tune now, have you? I’ll give you something, lad, you’re good at delaying tactics but it’s not going to work with me.’ And without further ado, he dragged the youth, still protesting, down the entry.

  Greta turned to Rene. ‘What d’you make of him?’

  Vera answered for her. ‘I think Harry’s right. Our Rene’s got a soft heart but the lad needs a good fright to help him stick to the straight and narrow.’

  Greta bit her lip. ‘I know he frightened me but he didn’t hurt me. I suppose you and Dad are right, he can’t be entering other people’s homes and doing what he wants.’ She turned to Rene. ‘Thanks for letting me see the kittens but I’d better do what Dad says now. See you around.’

  Greta took hold of the handles, lifted the cart and, with some difficulty, managed to manoeuvre it through the doorway and into the yard. She set the cart down and began to root through the items her father had placed inside it. The golliwog had been Amy’s and Greta had been unable to part with it after her death. Her mother had picked it up at a jumble sale and it had shared the girls’ double bed for years. Was now the time to get rid of it? She was no longer a child, she’d started growing up when her brother and sister had died. She took a deep breath. It would have to go. If she washed it then perhaps the pawnbroker in Breck Road would give her a couple of pennies for it.

  She put it to one side and picked up one of a pair of ugly pug dog ornaments which, for some reason Greta could never comprehend, her mother had loved; the other had been broken when the girl had been dusting them one day. She could almost hear her mother’s high pitched scream of horror and feel the slap she had administered. She had said that the pair together was worth something. Greta frowned. Could that youth be as knowledgeable as he claimed? She placed the ornament aside and picked up the dark oak wooden box. This she would definitely keep as it contained all her mother’s sewing things; cottons, bodkins, needles, pins and hooks for pulling rags through sacking to make rugs.

  Next she took up the chocolate box, remembering her mother fingering the different items; a baby’s shoe, a dried flower, ribbons and buttons. She would linger over a postcard from Cape Town and reread letters. Greta could picture her mother’s blonde head bent, a smile toying about her mouth. The girl blinked back tears and decided that it would be wrong to get rid of items that her mother had thought so much of. Perhaps when she had time she would read the letters herself. Next she picked up the flowered vase and inspected it. She turned it upside down and scrutinised the mark on its base. This had been a gift from Sally’s employer when she had left to get married.

  ‘Warra yer doin’ with that?’

  Greta glanced at her grandmother, who was standing by the back kitchen door, holding a cushion in one hand and a cigarette in the other. ‘It was nearly stolen, Gran. That boy, who broke into our house, was rummaging through Mam’s things out in the entry.’

  Cissie’s eyes widened. ‘I wonder what he was after!’

  ‘Mam always said the vase was worth something and wouldn’t part with it even when we were hard up. She pawned it once but wouldn’t rest until she could redeem it.’

  ‘Waste of money,’ said Cissie, placing the well-worn cushion on the back kitchen step and lowered herself onto it. She took a long drag on her fag. ‘Real sentimental was our Sal but no common-sense. Yer don’t hang on to things for sentiment when yer kids are hungry. It’s probably only worth a couple of coppers.’

  Greta turned on her fiercely. ‘We never starved! Mam felt deeply about people and places.’

  Cissie’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t get yerself in a twist, girl! I knew me own daughter. Sal did her best for all of yer by her lights, although she got a bit hoity-toity at times after she went into service. Don’t ask me why, when all she did was wait hand and foot on those who thought themselves better than us. Surprisingly, her mistress turned to her when she was in trouble. Now have yer finished there? Because if you have, I’d like yer to peel the veggies for me. I won’t have yer slackin’ thinkin’ I’m gonna be carryin’ yer around now yer’ve moved in with me.’

  ‘No, Gran,’ said Greta. ‘I haven’t quite finished here but I won’t be long.’ There were only two other things on the cart that were worth keeping and they were the two china chamber pots decorated with deep red roses. She told her grandmother that she would be back for them and stepped past her and into the back kitchen.

  The smell of roasting mutton filled the kitchen and her rumbling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since seven that morning and it was almost midday. She hurried upstairs to the small bedroom at the back of the house. It was almost identical to the one her brother had occupied in her previous home, and smaller than the bedroom she had shared with her sister. From its sash window she could see not only her grandmother’s backyard but that of the Millers’, too.

  She moved away from the window and gazed about her. Harry had whitewashed the walls because the room had been empty for some time and he wanted to make sure there were no bugs around. He had sold the double bed Greta and Amy had once shared, and bought a new mattress for her brother’s single bedstead, which now belonged to Greta. She had her own second-hand chest of drawers, but no wardrobe or rail to hang her few dresses and winter coat. They would have to go over the foot of the bed until her father could rig something up.

  She placed the vase on the chest of drawers and, after hesitating a moment, put the golliwog on the bed and the sewing and memory boxes beneath it. She could only hope that she and her father and grandmother would get on living together. At least there were no ghosts here. She went downstairs to fetch the chamber pots, and after that set about peeling the veggies for Sunday dinner.

  ‘So how did you get on at the police station, Dad?’ Greta looked across the table at Harry as he helped himself to mint sauce.

  ‘Got away from me, didn’t he? Like a blinking eel he was and wriggled free.’ His expression was bland. ‘Then ran hell for leather and was out of sight before I could catch up with him.’

  Greta stared at him suspiciously. ‘So you didn’t bother going to the police station?’

  ‘Oh, I went.’ Harry lifted his head and his expression was serious. ‘I thought they should know that he’s on the loose.’

  Cissie’s eyes went from one to the other. ‘You’s talking about that youth, who was after pinchin’ our Sal’s things?’

  Harry nodded, and said loudly, ‘A young down-and-out, Mrs Hardcastle.’

  ‘I’m not deaf!’ sniffed Cissie, taking a pinch of salt from the dish and sprinkling it over her food. ‘So who was he?’

  ‘No idea!’

  ‘He didn’t get away with anything?’

  ‘I didn’t give him a chance to get away with anything,’ said Harry.

  ‘I didn’t tell you before, Gran,’ said Greta. ‘But you know what he had the cheek to say … that he wasn’t a burglar because he used the key on the string to let himself in … said it wasn’t the same as breaking and entering.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Cissie and pointed a knife at her. ‘I’ve always had me doubts about making me key available to every Tom, Dick and Harry.’

  Father and daughter exchanged looks but refrained from commenting.

  ‘I know what yous two are thinking and yer wron
g. I’m more choosy than yer realise.’ Cissie stuffed a forkful of meat in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully before saying, ‘Our Sal never understood but then I didn’t expect her to. She never got over her father leaving us … always blamed me.’

  Silence.

  Greta did not know what to say except Was it your fault, Gran? But what a question to ask! Her gran might be utterly offended and that wouldn’t be a good start to the three of them living together.

  The silence seemed to stretch and it was Cissie who broke it. ‘So, Harry, d’yer think we’ll see the lad around here again?’ she asked.

  Harry shook his head. ‘He’s had a fright. If he’s got any common-sense at all he’ll stay away.’

  Greta thought that he hadn’t stayed away the first time and she had a feeling that they hadn’t seen the last of him.

  ‘So where d’yer think you’re going? Yer haven’t washed the dishes yet.’ Cissie thrust out a leg and blocked her granddaughter’s way.

  Greta only just managed to prevent herself from falling over by grabbing the arm of the sofa. ‘Do you mind, Gran? I could have broken something. One of these days I’ll catch your foot as I fall and you’ll be sorry, because it won’t half hurt your bunions!’

  The old woman sat up and reached for the packet of Woodbines on the occasional table nearby. ‘And you’d be sorry if that were to happen, because I’d not only hit the roof but you’d have all the housework and cooking to do. Now fill me cup again, there’s a luv. I’m dead parched this morning.’

  ‘It’d do you good, Gran, to do it yourself,’ said Greta firmly. ‘We’ve been here a fortnight now and I’ve yet to see you make a cup of tea for me or Dad.’

  Cissie made no sign of having heard her, was too busy lighting a fag. It wasn’t until she’d inhaled deeply several times that she flashed a honeyed smile at her granddaughter. ‘What’s the point of yer moving in here, queen, if yer not going to make me life easier?’

  Greta almost dropped the teapot. ‘I thought part of the reason we moved in was so that we could help each other. I didn’t think I was signing on to be your skivvy!’

  Cissie chuckled. ‘You will have yer little joke! And don’t forget me two sugars … and stir it well.’

  You can blinking stir it yourself, thought Greta, placing the cup down with such force on its saucer that the tea spilt over.

  ‘Watch what yer doin’!’ Cissie raised her hand but the girl dodged out of the way and made for the door.

  ‘I’ll tell me dad if you try that again,’ she said, and walked out.

  ‘I never touched yer. Come back and mop it up and I’ll give yer a penny for sweets.’

  ‘I’m late, Gran!’ called Greta.

  She paused on the front step to button up her coat, knowing that she would not say anything to Harry about her grandmother. Living with her was not all bad. More often than not she was there waiting for her when she arrived home from school with a welcoming fire in the grate and something hot to eat. She was a fair cook was her grandmother, even though the food was sometimes a strange mixture that had your taste buds wondering what was coming next. Besides, Harry had enough on his mind as his job was finishing next week.

  Greta fastened the ties on her hat, watching a toddler kick a flattened tin can along the gutter. She was reminded of her brother at that age and her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. Why did Alf have to die? She remembered Harry taking him to Goodison to watch Everton. He had been a chirpy little soul and loved not only kicking a ball about but dancing along with Amy to the music on the wireless. She and her mother used to laugh and laugh, watching the pair of them cavorting about, her brother pulling faces at them. A sob rose in her throat but she forced it down and wiped her damp eyes with one of the bobbles on the ties of her hat.

  Slowly she walked to the bottom of the step, her gaze taking in some girls with a skipping rope. One of them looked her way and said, ‘Wanna join in, Gret? We thought we’d play Old Soldiers Never Die!’

  Since her mother’s death, Greta had little time to play. She was gratified to be asked and sorry that she had to turn them down. ‘Love to, but I’ve Miss Birkett’s messages to do. Perhaps another time.’

  She walked to the bottom of the street and hurried along Whitefield Road to a draper’s shop. Above its window a sign said BIRKETT’S DRAPERS — CHILDREN’S AND BABYWEAR A SPECIALITY. She pushed open the door and a bell jangled overhead.

  Miss Birkett glanced up and smiled. ‘Just a moment, Greta,’ she said, her voice as precise as her appearance.

  Greta watched as the woman wrapped a dazzling white satin frock in tissue paper, and presumed that it was for the girl who stood with her mother this side of the counter. She guessed that the frock was for a Confirmation Service.

  Greta’s gaze wandered about the shop, taking in a compartmentalised wall filled with hanks of knitting wool in more colours than a rainbow. A rack of skirts, dresses and blouses stood in a corner, and on the wall behind Miss Birkett were wooden and glass cabinets, containing trays of underwear, socks and stockings, babies’ bibs, rubber pants and fluffy white nappies. A wave of sadness swept over Greta, as she was reminded again of Alf and Amy, and the times she had come in here with her mother.

  ‘Are you alright, dear?’

  ‘Yes!’ Greta blinked at Miss Birkett who, having finished serving the customer, was now slipping a hanger inside one of the discarded white frocks heaped on the counter. The woman’s intelligent, sympathetic eyes gazed into hers and Greta thought, she knows what I’m thinking! She remembered Miss Birkett had suffered, recalling her gran telling her that this woman’s hair had turned white overnight after receiving the news that her fiancé had been killed on the Somme.

  ‘Perhaps after you’ve done my messages you can have a cup of tea and a bun with me. That is, of course, if your grandmother doesn’t need you?’ Miss Birkett’s eyes were twinkling.

  Greta smiled. ‘She’s forever saying she needs me but I’ve done my chores for today. I’ve brushed the rug and hung it on the line. I’ve washed the lino in the kitchen and scrubbed the step. I made her tea and toast and took it to her … yet she still wants more.’

  ‘Enough said, dear,’ interrupted Miss Birkett in a gentle voice. ‘Your grandmother hasn’t had an easy life. However tempting … we mustn’t criticise her.’ Miss Birkett disappeared beneath the counter, reappearing a minute later with a wicker basket and an oilskin shopping bag. ‘The list and money are in the bag.’

  Greta thanked her. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘There’s no rush. I’ve more things on the list today so it might take you two journeys. Perhaps you can take the shopping to the house and wait for me there.’ Miss Birkett fumbled in the pocket of her black skirt and handed a key to her.

  Greta thanked her and, once outside the shop, opened the folded slip of paper. She gazed in surprised dismay at the length of the shopping list. Could Miss Birkett be throwing a party? She placed the note and money in her coat pocket and set off down Whitefield Road.

  There was a queue at the grocer’s but Greta spotted a girl from her class and they whiled away the time talking about what they’d like to do during the Easter holidays, which were still weeks away.

  ‘But that’s only if war isn’t declared first,’ said the girl, a quiver of excitement in her voice. ‘Dad said if that happens we’ll be evacuated.’ Greta gasped, but before she could say anything, the girl spoke again. ‘And have yer heard that there’s going to be a trial blackout on both sides of the Mersey?’

  Greta’s heart sank. ‘I hadn’t heard anything and I know Gran has done nothing about blackout curtains.’

  The girl smirked. ‘She’s going to have to! If there’s a war … ’

  Greta wanted to tell her to shut up about a war. What if they wanted her dad to go and fight? She couldn’t bear the thought of being parted from him. ‘When is this blackout?’

  ‘Saturday the thirtieth to Sunday the thirty-first of March,’ said the girl
.

  Greta knew that she would need to tell Harry as soon as she saw him that evening. She bit her lip, worried about that word evacuation. She was glad when the girl’s turn came to be served and she was left in peace.

  The shop assistant was vocal about the items Miss Birkett had on the list. ‘Stocking up, is she, in case there’s a war? Don’t blame her. When it comes there’ll be rationing sooner or later.’

  Heads turned and a customer fixed Greta with a stare and said loudly, ‘It’s alright for those who can afford to spend out on extras.’

  ‘It’s not my money,’ said Greta indignantly and, hunching a shoulder, turned her back on the woman, wishing that she, too, could afford to buy the provisions the shop assistant was placing in the basket. There were tins of salmon and peaches, a couple of packets of Rowntree’s cocoa, several jars of meat paste, two tins of butter beans, three of peas and several of evaporated milk. Then came the dried goods; currants were measured out on the brass scales, and packets of tea and sugar were all added to Greta’s load.

  Then she was off to the bacon and dairy counter, where she held her breath as the man sliced bacon and boiled ham so swiftly that he appeared to be in danger of slicing his fingers off. Butter was weighed and slapped into shape with two wooden paddles, and was joined in the oilskin bag a few minutes later, by half a pound of crumbly Lancashire cheese.

  Weighed down, Greta hurried to Miss Birkett’s house and deposited the first lot of shopping before doing the next lot. It was well past one o’clock when she arrived back at the house, where Miss Birkett was waiting for her, the shop being closed for lunch.

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said, smiling as she took the basket. ‘You remembered the buns?’ Greta nodded. ‘Well, one is for you to take with you.’

  ‘I thought I was having it here with you,’ said Greta, disappointed.

  Miss Birkett hesitated. ‘I’d have enjoyed your company. But, as I walked up the street, I noticed a young man knocking on your grandmother’s door. I couldn’t resist peeking from behind the parlour curtains when I got in. She’d opened the door to him by then and they were talking … must have talked for a good ten minutes before she invited him in. I thought you just might want to go home straightaway and find out who he is. Maybe he’s a long lost cousin!’ She handed a bun and a shilling to Greta.