by June Francis
Greta murmured a word of thanks, her pale brow creased in thought. She didn’t know of any long lost cousins, although she supposed it was possible there were some on her Mam’s side of the family. Harry had no living relatives. His three elder brothers had been killed in the Great War. ‘I’ll go and see,’ she said, ‘and I’ll come round to the shop later and let you know who he is.’
Miss Birkett saw her out and Greta ran across the road. Lifting the knocker, she hammered on her grandmother’s door.
3
‘What’s wrong with the key on the string?’
Greta glanced at Rene who was standing at the foot of the step, a green and white floral scarf over her hair. ‘Gran and Dad said it had to go! They aren’t taking any risks after that boy broke in. Miss Birkett told me she saw a young man knocking here and Gran invited him in. I’m dead curious to see who it is.’ She turned and banged the knocker again.
Rene, also curious, dumped her loaded shopping bags on her own tiled step. Her neighbour had never had young men visiting her. The door opened to reveal Cissie wearing a navy blue skirt and red jumper that stretched tightly over her enormous bosom. Her stockings were wrinkled at the ankles and she wore slippers. She must have been in the process of removing her metal curlers because half of her head was still covered in that armour while the other half looked like hairy fat sausages. She held the poker and looked put out. ‘What the hell’s the racket about? Yer’d think the bleedin’ house was on fire.’
‘I heard you had a visitor, Gran, and I wanted to see who it was,’ explained Greta, attempting to push her way in.
Cissie’s expression changed and she said grimly, ‘Miss Birkett tell yer, did she? Well, yer never gonna guess in a month of Sundays who it is. He came as a surprise to me I’ll tell yer that!’
‘He’s not a long lost member of the family, is he, Mrs Hardcastle?’ called Rene.
Cissie’s face twisted in a parody of a smile. ‘That’ll be the day!’ She fastened a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder and yanked her into the lobby before slamming the door.
‘Gran, d’you have to slam the door on Rene like that?’ whispered Greta.
‘Yer didn’t expect me to leave it open for every Tom, Dick and Harry to come in, did yer?’ Cissie said, looking surprised.
‘No, but … ’
‘Never mind Rene right now, girl, I thought you wanted to run an eye over me guest.’
‘I do! Who is he?’ Greta followed her grandmother up the lobby, her heels clicking on the linoleum.
‘Name’s Alexander Armstrong so he says! The name mightn’t be familiar to you but it is to me. Not that I recognised the lad because I only ever saw him twice, once when he was a babby and the second time when he was five … but he has his story off pat. So I thought I’d take a chance and invite him in. I’ve the poker and I’m big enough to sit on him and squash him if he tries any funny business.’ She pushed open the kitchen door and waved her granddaughter inside.
Greta stepped forward and then stopped abruptly, staring at the youth as he rose from the green moquette armchair that had come from the house in the next street. He was looking a lot smarter than the last time she had seen him. Dressed in navy trousers, jumper and jacket, his nut brown hair slicked down. ‘You!’ she gasped.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ he said, a rueful expression in his grey eyes. ‘I-I thought I’d best come and explain before I disappear for a while.’
‘Disappear? Where to? A borstal?’ she retorted.
A tide of scarlet ran along his cheekbones. ‘I suppose you’ve got a good reason to think that, but I never meant to frighten you and thieving doesn’t come easy to me. If I’d been surer of my welcome, I’d have told you and Mr Peters the truth straightaway.’
‘The truth! What’s that?’ She walked over to him and peered into his face.
Before he could answer Cissie said, ‘He claims to be the son of that Mr and Mrs Armstrong our Sal worked for when she was in service in Crosby. The family fell on hard times after that Wall Street crashed and the son was sent away to an orphanage in the Lake District when he was just eight years old! His mother was in a right state after his father supposedly topped himself, and came to our Sal for help.’
Greta was astounded. ‘Is this true?’
Alex’s face was pale as if all the blood had drained from it. ‘Do you think I’d make up a story like that?’ There was a hint of anger in his voice.
‘No, but … is it because of Mam you came to our house?’
‘Yes! I was only a toddler when your mother left to get married but she used to visit regularly and take me and my younger sisters out to the park and down by the river. She was there after my father died and my uncles came.’ Alex’s hands curled into fists at his sides. ‘I was hustled away the next morning to the orphanage. I couldn’t understand it. Anyhow, your mother found out where I was and wrote to me every Christmas and birthday. I wrote back to her when I could. It got that way that I almost forgot what she looked like but I appreciated her never forgetting me.’
‘What happened to your mother and sisters?’ asked Greta, enthralled by the story.
Before he could answer, Cissie interrupted, ‘I can see you believe him, girl, and I must admit I do because his tale seems to hang together. So why don’t the pair of yer sit down and we’ll have a cup of tea.’ She bustled over to the fireplace, and took the kettle from the hob as they both seated themselves at the table.
‘I don’t know what happened to them,’ said Alex, resting his elbows on the table and looking across at Greta. ‘Your mother only ever told me that they were in good health. She never answered my questions about where they were.’
Greta was puzzled. ‘I wonder why?’
He shrugged. ‘I gave up asking myself that question years ago.’
‘You were filled with anger, probably,’ said Cissie, putting milk into cups. ‘I know how it feels to be deserted.’ She nodded knowingly.
‘So how come you’re here now?’ asked Greta.
‘Last Christmas there was no card, so I wondered if something had happened to her.’
‘So you came all the way from the Lake District to find out why Mam hadn’t sent you a Christmas card?’ Greta shook her dark head slowly, her expression incredulous. ‘What took you? It’s months ago.’
He looked taken aback. ‘I’d been given a job on a farm. I was determined to make a go of it but living in with the family … it wasn’t the happiest of places and I was paid buttons. So I decided to leave and see if I could find my own family.’ He paused, looking slightly embarrassed, pleating the green chenille table covering with restless, slender fingers.
‘You thought Mam might be able to help you find them?’ said Greta, feeling dreamlike. The story reminded her of a film, yet Alex couldn’t be making it up because her gran had vouched for its truth.
‘Yes!’
‘You think she was in touch with your mother still?’
‘I don’t know. But if your mother kept in touch with me, then perhaps she did so with my mother or sisters.’
‘You mean you believe your mother might have written to Mam but not to you, her own son!’ Greta was shocked.
He was silent, gazing down at his hands.
‘That’s exactly what he is saying,’ said Cissie sharply, filling the cups with steaming tea. ‘And he could never write to her … and why? Because she withheld her whereabouts from him. It’s lousy to wake up one morning and discover the person yer loved has betrayed yer. I’m starting to realise that me and this lad could be kindred spirits, girl!’
Alex smiled. ‘Thanks, Mrs Hardcastle. I appreciate that.’
Greta’s gaze went from one to the other. She had never heard her grandmother speak of her feelings when her husband had left. Nor how she felt about her sons. For the very first time, Greta wanted to know about her grandmother’s past life. Her mother had never spoken about her brothers or her father. Only once had Greta asked about them and then her mother had tol
d her that part of her life was a closed book.
‘Wake up, girl! Here’s yer tea!’ Cissie nudged the cup and saucer closer to Greta.
‘Ta, Gran!’ Greta took a sip of tea and then remembered the bun Miss Birkett had given her. She looked across the table at Alexander and taking the bun out of the paper bag, said, ‘Want half?’
His grey eyes lit up. ‘If it’s a peace offering, thanks.’
She flushed. ‘Think of it like that if you want.’ She stood up, took a knife from the drawer in the sideboard and cut the bun exactly in half on the paper bag and held it out to him.
‘I won’t say that’ll spoil yer dinner,’ said Cissie, with a faint smile. ‘But I’m gonna have to go off to work soon, I’m putting in a couple of extra hours, so yer’ll have to cook something for yerself, girl, and Alexander, if he wants anything.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Mrs Hardcastle. You’ve been kind enough to me already by listening and I appreciate that,’ he said, his expression warm.
The old woman blushed. ‘Gerraway with yer, lad. Our Sal wouldn’t have bothered keeping in touch with yer if she hadn’t thought it was the right thing to do.’ She moved over to the mirror and began to remove the rest of her curlers.
Greta bit into her half of bun and was suddenly uncertain whether they were right to trust to his telling the truth. He certainly knew how to twist her grandmother around his finger. ‘So have you any idea where your mother and sister are?’ Even to her ears her voice was slightly aggressive.
‘No! I came here looking for your mother, only to find she had passed away!’ His eyes challenged her. ‘Remember?’
Greta sighed, remembering the expression in her mother’s eyes after Alf and Amy had died. Her throat felt suddenly tight and she put the bun down and reached for the cup of tea. She took several gulps of it before she managed to say, ‘Did you guess she was dead when you went upstairs and raided through her things?’
He hesitated and then nodded. ‘No fire, no dinner in the oven at four on a foggy freezing afternoon. Your mother would have been at home, ready with a welcome if she was alive.’ Greta’s eyes filled with tears. He stretched out a hand and tentatively touched hers. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She tried to smile, shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she took a deep breath. ‘So you lit the fire and fried an egg and some bread, and went looking for anything that might help you find them, such as … letters?’
He nodded. ‘I didn’t get the chance to read any of them because I heard you come in and then that first yowl. I nearly … ’ He paused. ‘Anyway, you know what happened next. You came into to the bedroom and found me.’
‘Why didn’t you say all this then?’
‘The light went out, you screamed and I panicked.’ He put the last of the bun in his mouth.
‘So when Dad caught you in the entry, you’d come back for the letters?’
‘Yes! I should have told him then but my story sounds so farfetched I didn’t think he’d believe me. I felt like a bandit in one of those Westerns about to be lynched by the mob with me protesting my innocence and them not believing a word I said.’ He pulled another face and a lock of brown hair fell onto his forehead. It made him look more attractive.
Greta understood exactly what he meant. ‘So what changed your mind about telling us the truth?’
Before he could answer Cissie broke in on their conversation.
‘I’m going now, queen,’ She stood with her coat and hat on, one hand resting on Alexander’s shoulder and her face powdered and rouged, her lips heavily caked in red. ‘You take care, lad! Have a good trip!’
‘Thanks, Mrs Hardcastle!’ He smiled up at her.
‘Ta-tah for now, lad,’ she said, and left.
There was a silence for several moments after she had gone. Alexander drained his cup and placing it on the saucer, said, ‘When I let myself into your other house, I only had a couple of pennies to my name. I hitched here from Keswick. I thought I’d easily manage to find a job in Liverpool. Well, you won’t know yet because you’re too young … but jobs aren’t easy to find if you haven’t got a reference or someone to speak for you.’
Greta folded her arms across her chest and said tartly, ‘I’ll be fourteen in October! I’ll be looking for work then and I know already how tough it is out there.’
He grinned. ‘Keep your hair on, I didn’t mean to offend you.’
She said stiffly, ‘OK! I believe you. So what did you do after you managed to escape from my dad?’
‘I didn’t! He took me to the nearest vicarage, which amazed me. He told the vicar I was on my uppers and needed help finding a job.’
She gazed at him in amazement. ‘Dad did that! Golly! I thought he didn’t believe in God.’
He scratched his ear and his smile widened. ‘Well, if he does or not, he did the right thing. The vicar spoke to someone who spoke to someone else and I’ve a job as a deck boy on the SS Arcadian Star. She’s berthed at Brocklebank dock, out Bootle way. I’m sailing tonight for South America.’
‘What about finding your family?’
He sighed and scratched his ear again. ‘I thought you might let me have a look at one of the letters.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Although, I haven’t got much time.’
‘I’ll get them,’ she said immediately, feeling a stir of excitement and hurried upstairs. She took the old chocolate box with its picture of red, yellow and pink roses on its top from beneath the bed and blew off a light layer of dust and opened it. She hadn’t had time to read the letters as she had promised herself and, after hearing what Alexander had to say, she would like to see what they said, too. She did have a quick peek to see if any of them were from a Mrs Armstrong, and saw that more than half of them were. Should she hand all of them over to him?
Greta was still undecided when she entered the kitchen. But as soon as she saw the expression on his face as she placed the envelopes, tied up with yellow ribbon, on the table, she was moved to do what she considered the right thing.
‘You take them,’ she said, shoving them towards him. ‘You can read them while you’re at sea.’
He stared at her and a muscle in his throat convulsed as he gripped the envelopes. ‘That’s real generous of you. Thanks!’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll have to be going. I was given an advance on my wages to buy a few things that I need to go to sea.’
‘I’ll see you out then.’ She walked with him to the front door, thinking that he was not going away empty-handed. ‘You will come back and let us know how you get on? I mean I’m sure Gran’ll want to see you again,’ she added hastily. ‘You two being kindred spirits.’
‘I’d be glad to. Thanks again for these.’ He patted his pocket before lifting a hand in farewell, then he strode off down the street.
Greta experienced a sense of anticlimax after he had gone. He had brought a bit of excitement into her life and now everything felt flat. If the letters told him of his mother’s and sisters’ whereabouts and they were reunited, would she ever see him again? She questioned why he wanted to find his mother when she had allowed him to be placed in an orphanage. She felt certain that if her mother had been in the same position she would never have parted with her son. Of course, it was terrible for Alex’s mother to have lost her husband and income but Greta was convinced Sally would have worked her socks off to keep her family altogether. Perhaps she shouldn’t have given the letters to him after all!
She grimaced, then remembering her grandmother was not going to be there to prepare their evening meal, she placed strips of breast of lamb in the blackened pan and set about preparing the vegetables. Suddenly it occurred to her that her father might know all about the Armstrongs. Should she ask him when he came home from work?
But when Harry entered the house at four o’clock that afternoon with a tight expression on his face, and having dumped his haversack of tools on the floor by the door, announced that he’d been paid off the job, Greta knew
that now was not the right time to mention the Armstrongs. When Cissie returned, Greta whispered not to mention Alexander to Harry.
Cissie nodded. ‘I agree with yer, queen, I’ll keep me gob shut. Let’s pray that it won’t be long before he hears of another job.’
It was a quiet, tense weekend.
Greta entered the kitchen the following Monday evening and found her grandmother setting the table and her father reading the Echo.
‘What’s in the paper tonight?’ she asked.
‘Nothing good!’ he rasped, not looking up. ‘Hitler’s troops have marched into the capital of Moravia and Liverpool Corpy are asking for more ARP personnel. They want each district to provide its own air raid services and each group of streets its own personnel.’
‘Air raids,’ said Greta, and shivered. ‘I suppose you know, Dad, there’s going to be a blackout over Merseyside in a fortnight. We need to get some curtains.’
He said softly, ‘Speaking to me now, are you, luv? You’ve been that quiet the last couple of nights I thought I’d offended you.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Of course, you haven’t, Dad! I just thought you might be glad of a bit of peace.’
He smiled. ‘You saying I’ve been acting like a bear with a sore head?’
‘I know you’re worried, Dad,’ she said, promptly pulling out a dining chair and perching on it sideways so that she faced him, one slender arm resting on the back of the chair. ‘I didn’t want to bother you with something that isn’t important, compared to you being out of work.’
His dark brows knitted and he folded the newspaper and pushed it down the side of the cushion. ‘What is it?’
‘The name Alexander Armstrong mean anything to you?’
His expression was blank.
Cissie rolled her eyes at her granddaughter and took the sizzling frying pan from the fire. ‘Speak up, Gran,’ said Greta.