A Place To Call Home

by June Francis

  Harry looked at Cissie. ‘So you’re in on this, too, are you?’

  ‘He’s that lad our Sal used to write to. She looked after him when he was a baby. You can’t have forgotten that she worked for a family called Armstrong? Didn’t the name come up a short while ago?’

  ‘Most likely! But I don’t remember our Greta knowing the name and she certainly never met the boy.’

  ‘I have, Dad! And so have you,’ said Greta.

  There was a short silence that was broken by Harry saying, ‘Out with it, luv! You’ve got that expression on your face I remember your mother wearing. You have been keeping secrets from me, haven’t you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only one, Dad, and only since Saturday. He was here and you would have recognised him without knowing who he was.’

  ‘You’re not making sense, girl!’

  ‘He’s the lad who broke into the other house,’ said Cissie, forking out sausages. ‘He came looking for our Sal. He’s had a bad time of it stuck in an orphanage. I’m sure you know some of the story. Our Sal must have mentioned it to you.’

  Harry’s face registered incredulity. ‘That lad was the Armstrong boy! What did he want of Sally and why didn’t he tell me who he was?’

  With part of her mind Greta noticed that Harry had managed to speak her mother’s name without tripping over it. ‘He didn’t think you’d believe him. And by the way, Dad, you lied to us! He didn’t escape you, he … ’

  ‘He told you that, did he?’ Harry sighed. ‘So much for me having secrets. So what did he come back for?’

  ‘He wants to find his family,’ said Cissie. ‘He had hoped to find out where they were from our Sal. He found the letters upstairs but didn’t have time to look at them. So Greta gave them to him to read while he’s at sea.’

  ‘You gave Sally’s letters to him!’ Harry frowned.

  ‘I thought they were his by right, Dad! What use were they to us?’ asked Greta.

  ‘I agree,’ said Cissie.

  ‘And he’s got a job on the SS Arcadian Star, Dad,’ added Greta.

  ‘Good for him! But … ’ Harry rubbed his forehead. ‘You asked me about the Armstrongs. I know hardly anything except that your mam thought a lot of that woman, not that she spoke much about her after the husband died, but I know she always got a letter from her at Christmas. Except last Christmas … the letter came earlier … October or November. I know nothing more. Now let’s get the food your gran’s putting out while it’s hot.’

  Greta wondered what it was her mother had seen in Mrs Armstrong. There must have been something good. That meant Greta was mistaken thinking about her the way she did, and could only hope that there would be something in the letters she had given to Alexander that would be of help to him.

  The next morning Rene met Greta on the way out of Ridgeway’s Dairy with a jug of milk clutched against her. ‘Can’t stop,’ said the girl, not pausing. ‘I’m late up with Dad not working, and I haven’t had my breakfast. I’ve got to get a move on or I’ll be locked out of school.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Rene, stopping her with a hand. ‘I haven’t seen you the whole weekend … who was your visitor?’

  ‘He was our burglar from the next street … the one Dad caught in the entry!’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘Nope! Tell you more next time I see you!’ Greta hurried away.

  Rene climbed the step into the dairy in a mood of frustration and concern. Poor Harry out of work! Did he know about the burglar? What was Cissie thinking of inviting him into the house? Had he tricked his way in? Could he have stolen anything? Should she warn her mother?

  Rene had her jug filled with milk and then walked home to find her mother, sitting at the table across from Wilf, reading the Daily Mirror that he had brought in earlier. Rene placed the milk jug on the table.

  ‘There’s going to be rationing. You’re going to have to think more how you’re going to feed me. How about getting some chicks?’ said Vera, her expression shrewd. ‘I’d still be able to have an egg for breakfast, but we’d have to watch the cats with them.’

  Rene glanced at Wilf. He nodded, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Vera nodded too. ‘That’s right, you’ll get them and look after them, won’t you, Wilf?’

  He agreed, looking pleased with the idea.

  ‘And we must remember there’s going to be a blackout soon. We’ll need curtains,’ said Vera, frowning at her daughter. ‘You’ll have to see to that.’ A little shudder ran through her. ‘Bombs falling on Liverpool, I don’t want to believe it. Like I don’t want to believe that soldiers are going to march off to Europe again.’ Her voice quickened and rose an octave. ‘And they’re expecting women to join up this time, too! You won’t go, will you, Rene?’ She reached out and clutched her daughter’s arm. ‘You’d like to, I’m sure, but you can’t go and leave me!’

  ‘Don’t be daft! I’ve no intention of leaving you, Mother! I’m sure in the circumstances they’ll allow me to stay home.’ Rene freed herself with difficulty. It might have been fun joining the forces but she knew her duty and there were other activities she could get involved in. ‘What about us joining the WVS? They’ll teach us useful things to do when … if … war comes.’

  Vera sighed with relief and managed a watery smile. ‘There’ll be little I can do with my rheumaticky fingers and poor old feet but I suppose I could knit socks for the forces.’

  ‘It would help stop your fingers from stiffening up completely,’ said Rene, as she sat down and reached for the cereal packet. Remembering her meeting with Greta, she decided that now was not the time to warn her mother that there was a burglar about.

  A couple of evenings later Rene saw Greta coming out of the newsagent’s and quickly caught up with her.

  ‘Hello, Greta! You OK?’

  ‘Fine. I hear you’re getting some chicks.’ Greta placed the newspaper under her arm.

  Rene smiled. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Wilf told Dad. Dad asked if you were going to get a cockerel when the chicks grow into hens. You’ll have to if you want more hens for more eggs or for Christmas dinner.’

  Rene grimaced. ‘I hadn’t thought of that … but perhaps one of the chicks’ll grow into a cockerel.’

  ‘One thing’s for sure, it’ll get us up mornings.’

  The two of them parted at the bottom of their respective steps and went indoors. It wasn’t until she was cooking the tea that Rene realised she had forgotten to ask about the burglar. Ah well, if he had been a danger to them, Greta would have told her so. She was still curious about his being invited into next door, though, but finding out why was something that would have to wait. She had plenty of other things on her mind that had to be done straightaway.

  That week Rene bought blackout material and made curtains for all the windows. Doing the sewing was murder on the eyes but when it was finished and the curtains hung, Rene was aware of a sense of relief. She stood on the pavement in the dark the Friday evening before the trial blackout, relieved to see not one chink of light showed through them.

  ‘Something interesting up there?’ said Harry.

  His voice startled her and a hand went to her breast as her eyes searched for him. He was standing in the doorway. ‘I didn’t notice you!’ she called. Considering they had lived next door to one another for almost a month now she had seen little of him.

  ‘Sorry!’ He stepped down from the lobby and strolled towards her, hands in pockets. He came alongside her and looked up at their two houses.

  Rene was very conscious of his nearness and her heart quickened its beat but she told herself to keep her eyes off him and act casual. There was no future in getting excited just because they were being neighbourly at last. He was still mourning Sally and she had her duty to her mother. ‘Ugly things, blackout curtains,’ she murmured. ‘Give me a nice floral print or gold damask any day.’

  ‘I remember Sally telling me about the pair of you getting dressed up in curtains
once.’

  Rene remembered it too, and smiled at the memory. She said in a dreamy voice, ‘It was the first of May and we didn’t have anything else that we could think of to dress up in. I remember we paraded all the way to Lime Street with an empty jam tin with a slit in the lid and several dried peas inside, so it rattled, and sounded like people already thought us good enough to give money to.’

  ‘Up until last year she still remembered the taste of the ice cream you all bought with the money you made.’ There was a tremor in his voice as he recalled the conversation. Sally had been making a headdress from a length of net curtain for Amy at the time. For once his wife had opened up and talked about what her life had been like before her father had disappeared, painting those days in rainbow colours. It wasn’t until she was dying that she had told him about her father’s letters and their meetings. Harry had been devastated, having always believed that they had no secrets from each other.

  ‘Happy memories,’ said Rene softly.

  He could only nod and for a moment was unable to speak. This time last year, despite money being short, he had felt fulfilled, his aim to take care of his family. He had been content with his life and secure in Sally’s love, believing that they had no secrets from each other. There were still times when he dreamed of her being in bed beside him. He would wake and reach out for her, his whole body throbbing with his need for her, only to embrace the chilling emptiness that spoke of his loss.

  ‘Are you OK, Harry?’ Rene placed her hand on his shoulder.

  He cleared his throat, saw the concern in her eyes and forced a smile. ‘Greta mentioned curtains to me but I chose to forget about them.’

  ‘You’re going to have to get some. Surely you can get financial help to buy them from the Corpy if you’re out of work?’

  Shame flooded through Harry. He had already pawned Sally’s brooch. It had been a difficult thing to do, regarding it, as he did, as Greta’s inheritance from her mother, but he was desperately short of money and they could not live on Cissie’s wages and the dole alone. His black eyebrows rose and his expression was austere. ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!’ he said stiffly.

  She flushed at the anger in his voice and withdrew her hand. ‘Don’t be so proud! There’ll be planes overhead tomorrow night, checking for any lights!’

  ‘I know that … and I know they’re going to blow up a building in South Chester Street in town … and that there’ll be fires and other explosions … but we’ll be in our beds, so we won’t be showing a light.’

  ‘But you’ll need blackout curtains if war comes.’

  ‘I’ll worry about that when it happens,’ he said in a voice that said, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

  Rene nodded, letting the subject drop. She hugged herself. It was getting cold, but she didn’t want to go indoors yet. ‘How are you and Mrs Hardcastle getting on together?’

  A faint smile relaxed his lean, craggy face. ‘She’s a better cook than I gave her credit for in the past … and she and Greta seem to be rubbing along OK.’

  ‘Greta told me you had a visit from your burglar.’

  She caught the gleam of his teeth in the lamplight. ‘Tell you he came looking for Sally, did she?’

  Rene started. ‘Sally?’

  ‘She didn’t tell you that?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘To be frank, Harry, she told me hardly anything and I was dying of curiosity.’ She smiled.

  He laughed. ‘That wasn’t smart of her! I would have thought you’d have been the one person she should ask … you and Sally having been such friends.’

  ‘Ask what? Honestly, Harry, it’s almost as frustrating talking to you as to her!’ A small laugh escaped her. ‘What’s this about? What’s that lad got to do with Sally?’

  ‘Give me a chance! He’s the son of that family Sally was in service to … the Armstrongs. You’d know more about them than I would.’

  For a moment she was speechless, then a memory came vividly to mind. Sally had come to her in tears. Apparently Mr Armstrong was dead. Sally was married to Harry by then and no longer living in at the family’s house in Crosby on the outskirts of Liverpool, but Mrs Armstrong had written to her, asking if she could help her out with the children for a few hours a week. She’d had to sack all her staff and the family had moved to a smaller house, but she couldn’t cope with the children on her own and Sally had always been wonderful with children. The day Sally had come to Rene in tears, Mr Armstrong had apparently been having stomach pains and had lost weight since losing most of his money in the aftermath of the Wall Street crash. He had told his wife that he had nervous debility and had been taking pills bought from a herbalist, since he had no faith in doctors. His death had come quite suddenly and was caused by an overdose of the pills, so there had been an inquest.

  Sally had asked Rene to go along with her as she was likely to be called on as a witness. The room had been crowded. It was the only time that Rene had set eyes on Mrs Armstrong, and she already had preconceived ideas about the woman, being of the opinion she had used Sally for her own gain. But when she saw her, she had pitied her. If ever a woman was near breakdown, it was Mrs Armstrong. Yet, just like Sally, she had managed to put up a good show and had stood up to the questioning extremely well. But when the death had been declared accidental, the relief on both the maid’s and mistress’s faces had been palpable.

  Harry shook her shoulder. ‘You’ve gone off in a trance. A penny for them!’ Rene stared at him, transfixed, and for a moment forgot everything else but being close to him. He shook her again. ‘Rene, what is it?’

  She cleared her throat and drew away from him, remembering what she had been thinking. ‘What does the boy want?’

  ‘To find his mother and sisters. Apparently he was put in an orphanage and hasn’t seen or heard from them. Did Sally ever mention Mrs Armstrong to you?’

  ‘They kept in touch?’

  He nodded. ‘There’s a bundle of letters. Greta gave them to him to read while he’s at sea … but who’s to say that he’ll find what he’s looking for.’

  She nodded and her brow creased in thought. ‘I’ve a feeling an uncle had something to do with the lad being placed in an orphanage. Mrs Armstrong had a brother so it was probably him who took charge of things. I do seem to remember that the girls were put with an uncle and an aunt. Perhaps he thought a boy would be too much work for his wife. Unfair, but there are people who believe girls are much easier to handle than boys.’

  ‘As a father of a girl of nearly fourteen I’d dispute that it’s true,’ he said dryly.

  ‘But you’ve her gran to help you!’ She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with mock horror. ‘I can’t believe I just said that of Cissie Hardcastle.’

  He said seriously, ‘Aye! She’s not as bad as she’s painted … but she’s not going to live forever … that cough of hers worries me. If anything were to happen to us both where would that leave Greta? How would she cope on her own? I want her safe.’

  Rene’s heart lurched. ‘What d’you think is going to happen to you? You weren’t thinking of joining the army? I mean you’re thirty six.’

  ‘You saying I’m past the post?’

  Before she could answer Greta called from the doorway. ‘Your cocoa’s ready, Dad. Come and get it while it’s hot.’

  ‘OK! I’m coming now,’ called Harry. He smiled at Rene. ‘Perhaps it’s best you don’t answer my question. I’ll tell Greta what you said about Mrs Armstrong. Goodnight, luv.’

  ‘Goodnight, Harry.’ She watched him go into the house, warmed by his use of the word luv to her; although she knew it didn’t mean what she’d have liked it to. Still, they were friends and on that thought she went indoors.

  The evening of the blackout was misty and, for a while, Rene lay awake, thinking of next door not having any blackout curtains. She could hear planes overhead and wondered if any lights were showing on Merseyside. On Monday evening Rene read in the Echo that the blackout ha
d been declared a success but, because of the weather conditions, it was decided a repeat performance would probably be necessary.

  4

  The days started to draw out and Miss Birkett, having learnt that Harry was out of a job, asked him to turn his hand to repainting the sign over her shop and whitewashing the backyards to the house and shop.

  The Easter weekend in April brought sunny skies. Greta, Harry and Cissie joined the crowds waiting at the landing stage to take the ferry to New Brighton. They could have almost forgotten the possibility of war as they tried to relax. Cissie sat on a towel, reading The Red Letter magazine for women, Harry strolled along the water’s edge, and Greta sunbathed, eyeing up the youths on the beach. That morning there had been an announcement on the wireless that Parliament was recalled due to Italy’s march into Albania and the effect that would have on Greece and Yugoslavia.

  The following day there were fierce attacks from the German press, accusing England of frightening small nations like Greece, Yugoslavia, Rumania and Turkey into believing they were in danger of being invaded. ‘But they are in danger, aren’t they, Dad?’ said Greta, placing a bowl of porridge on the table in front of him. She had to repeat the question twice because her father didn’t appear to have heard her.

  ‘I think so … ’ Harry hesitated before adding, ‘That’s why I’ve joined the Civil Defence. I’ll feel happier being trained to know what to do if the air raids come, rather than just sitting in a shelter twiddling my thumbs.’

  The news was a relief to Greta. She had worried that with the job situation the way it was, he might after all go and join the army. But that was not her only worry. ‘There’s talk, Dad, of whole schools being evacuated if it’s war. It would be a waste of time me going, Dad. I’m not a little girl, anymore,’ she said urgently. ‘In a few months I’ll be looking for a job.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Cissie, her jowls wobbling as she nodded her head. ‘We’ll need her here. I’m not leaving me home for Hitler or anybody else!’