A Place To Call Home

by June Francis

  ‘Can I come with you?’ she asked.

  A slow smile lighted his face. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. I think you’re almost as eager as I am to find my family.’

  She could hardly admit that wasn’t true and it was Alex himself who interested her, so said, ‘You know a bit of Gran’s story. I’ve family I’ve never met and I suppose I am curious. So I can understand how you feel.’

  Alex said, ‘Come on then! Let’s get cracking.’ He started towards the dock gates and Greta quickly followed him.

  It took them more than half an hour to find the address on the letter as they had to walk most of the way. The pair of them stood, leaning against the railings of the North Park on the far limits of Bootle, gazing at a three storey house on the opposite side of the road.

  ‘So are you going to go over and knock then?’ said Greta. ‘We’ve been standing here for five minutes just looking at it.’

  Alex frowned. ‘Don’t exaggerate! Two at the most.’ He took his mother’s letter from his pocket and checked the number of the house and flat again, although there was no need. He had them off by heart, but now he was within a breath of discovering where she was he felt sick with apprehension. What if he was a big disappointment to her and she felt ashamed of him?

  ‘Let’s go then!’ said Greta, nudging his elbow. ‘It amazes me that someone like you, who thought nothing of breaking into our house and cooking yourself something to eat, should be taking their time going over there.’

  ‘You aren’t half pushy for your age,’ muttered Alex, putting the letter away. He took a deep breath, glanced right and then left and crossed the road. Greta was close on his heels, hoping whoever came to the door would have the answer they wanted.

  The door was opened by an old woman dressed in a pink flannelette nightgown, and with a paper crown on her lank grey hair. She beamed at them. ‘You carol singers?’ Before they could answer in the negative, she added, ‘Give us a burst of Away in a Manger then?’ She cupped her hand over her right ear.

  Greta almost laughed. ‘It’s not Christmas,’ she said unsteadily.

  Alex cleared his throat. ‘We’re looking for my mother. She used to live here. Mrs Abigail Armstrong?’

  She screwed up her wrinkled face. ‘I don’t know that carol … don’t recognise the words.’

  Greta giggled. Alex tried to ignore her and repeated loudly, ‘I’m looking for my mother, she used to live in 3b.’

  ‘You want a wee! Well, don’t tell me, young man! There’s lavatories in the park. Go over there!’ The old woman made to shut the door.

  Quickly Alex jammed it open with his foot. ‘I’m looking for my mother!’ he yelled. ‘She lived on the second floor.’

  ‘There’s no need to shout. I’m not deaf.’ The woman shook her head and the crown fell off. ‘You young people, none of you know how to speak properly.’

  Convulsed with laughter, Greta had to turn her face away.

  ‘My mother’s name was Abigail Armstrong,’ enunciated Alex carefully, whilst struggling to cling on to his patience.

  ‘Armstrong, Armstrong!’ The woman sucked in her breath and looked toothless, then she exhaled. ‘Hang on! I’ll ask me old man!’ She was in the act of closing the door when it was wrenched out of her hand.

  ‘Mother, what are you doing answering the door in your nightie? What will people think of you?’ chided a dark haired younger woman in a pinny. She gazed at Alex and Greta. ‘What is it you two want? I could hear one of you shouting from upstairs.’

  A relieved Alex told her.

  The woman looked astonished. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God! Who’d have believed you really existed. She was always going on about how well you were doing at Merchant Taylors’ in Crosby, where you were a boarder. I never believed her because, although she said she had private income, more often than not she didn’t seem to have two pennies to rub together. She did a moonlight flit and there’s no way she’d leave a forwarding address in those circumstances, is there?’

  Alex’s heart sank as he stared at her, dumbstruck. His mother had made up stories of him being at one of the most prestigious public schools in Crosby. He could imagine what she would think when she discovered he was only a deck boy! He glanced at Greta and immediately her expression sobered. She pulled on his arm, ‘Let’s go!’

  The woman nodded. ‘I’d do exactly that if I was you and quick! I don’t collect the rents but Mr Brown, who does, is in the back. Your mam owed for two months, got away with getting into debt because she spoke nice and charmed him. He might expect you to pay it.’

  At that moment a voice called, ‘Who’s that at the door, Mrs Cheetham? Someone interested in the top flat?’

  ‘That’s him,’ whispered the woman. She placed a hand on Alex’s chest and pushed hard. ‘Go on! Scram!’

  5

  Cissie stared at Harry’s reflection in the mirror above the fireplace as she dug two matching tortoiseshell combs into her bleached hair, which she had piled up on top of her head. ‘Yer a bloody fool! Don’t yer know that most heroes end up dead,’ she chided. ‘Did yer bother to think that yer could have made Greta an orphan?’

  Harry did not lift his head from his perusal of the cartoon strip of Jane in the Daily Mirror. ‘I wasn’t in any danger. I’m not stupid, Mrs Hardcastle.’

  ‘I can back him up,’ said Alex, who was seated at the table, eating a bacon butty that Greta had made for him. ‘It was just uncomfortable because of the heat and the damp … and upsetting seeing the state of the men who’d got the full force of the escaping steam.’

  ‘She’s proud of him really,’ said Greta, putting an arm around Cissie’s ample waist and hugging her. ‘Isn’t that right, Gran?’

  ‘If yer say so. Now get out me way, girl! Yer slowing me down!’ She nudged her granddaughter with her hip.

  Harry lowered the newspaper. ‘Why are you getting all dolled up? I thought you said you weren’t going into work ‘til this evening.’

  A thick layer of face powder did little to conceal Cissie’s wrinkles, she had black pencilled over her greying eyebrows, as well as having applied lipstick. ‘I’m going to see an old friend.’ Cissie bent to check the seams of her stockings were straight.

  Harry glanced at his daughter and winked. ‘You’re putting on your face to see another woman?’

  ‘As it happens it’s a fella! We were sweethearts before I met Mr Hardcastle and he swept me off me feet … not that any good came of that. So be warned, Greta,’ she glanced at her granddaughter, ‘don’t be fooled like I was but get to know a bloke first before yer decide to tie the knot. Mr Hardcastle waltzed into my life, dressed like a waiter, and I fell for him. He could tell a tale and sweet-talked me into marriage before I had time to get me bearings.’ She switched her gaze to Harry. ‘As it happens, Mr Nosey, me ol’ sweetheart’s wife’s just died. I saw it in the Births, Marriages and Deaths in the Echo last week, so I wrote him a little letter and he wrote back.’

  ‘Isn’t that romantic, Greta, luv? Doesn’t it make your heart glad to think your gran might have found true love again after all these years,’ said Harry.

  Greta chuckled and Alex smiled faintly.

  Cissie looked at Harry suspiciously. ‘Are you taking the mickey?’

  ‘As if I would.’ He gave his attention to the Mirror again.

  ‘I deserve some happiness,’ said Cissie, reaching for the russet hat perched on top of a fruit bowl that contained several hairgrips, a handful of buttons, a cotton reel with a needle stuck in it and a pair of gloves. She gazed at her reflection and placed the hat at a jaunty angle, then fluffed up the bottom of her hair with the back of a hand. A satisfied smile lit up her face. ‘There, I think I’ll do.’ She picked up her gloves and handbag and made for the door into the lobby.

  ‘You behave yourself now,’ said Harry. The old woman made a noise somewhere between a snort and a giggle, performed a backward kick with her left leg and disappeared down the lobby.

  Greta closed the
door behind her. ‘He might be desperate and lonely enough to want another wife to replace the one he’s just lost, Dad.’

  ‘She’s not free as far as we know.’ Harry’s eyelids drooped and he stifled a yawn, thinking that the last thing he needed was for Cissie’s long-lost husband to arrive on the scene.

  Greta had forgotten her grandparents were still married but then that hadn’t stopped Cissie living with a man in the past. It was as if she had no shame about living in sin. Still, it was no use worrying about it now. She was late for her Saturday job and might have to do some of Miss Birkett’s shopping after lunch. She lifted her cardigan from the back of a chair. ‘I’m going to have to go. Dad, you’ll look after Alex?’

  Alex swallowed the last mouthful of bacon and bread and gazed at her. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Greta. I’ve been paid off the Arcadian Star, and should have picked up my gear and brought it away with me. I thought I’d go and get it and then find myself a bed at the Sailors’ Home.’

  Harry folded the newspaper. ‘No need for you to pay out for a bed there, lad. If you don’t mind sleeping on the sofa in the parlour, you can stay here. For just a shilling a day you can have breakfast and a hot meal in the evening thrown in.’

  Alex’s face showed a mixture of surprise and pleasure. ‘Thanks, Mr Peters, I really appreciate the offer.’

  ‘You’re welcome, isn’t that right, Greta?’ He glanced at his daughter, who was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Fine by me, Dad, and I’m sure Gran’ll say the same.’ She smiled at Alex. ‘Tarrah! See you later!’

  It took Greta some time to do all Miss Birkett’s shopping and she had lunch with her in between, telling her all about her morning.

  ‘If Alex’s mother has done a flit, Greta dear,’ said Miss Birkett, spooning coffee into cups, ‘it seems possible that she might have spun a few fairy stories for your mother in her last letter.’

  Greta put down her ham sandwich and stared at her. ‘You mean she mightn’t have been getting married at all? There mightn’t be a widower with a bicycle shop?’

  ‘I could be wrong! But why disappear without paying the rent if she had a man of substance, who was going to marry her?’ Miss Birkett’s pale blue eyes wore a troubled expression.

  ‘Maybe with having to fork out for her trousseau she ran short of money and didn’t want him to know that she wasn’t a good manager,’ said Greta, picking up her sandwich again and biting into it.

  ‘Could be,’ said Miss Birkett, stirring sugar into her coffee. ‘But remember she also lied about Alex’s whereabouts. Sadly, whatever is the truth we are not in possession of it, so we can only surmise the facts.’

  That was all too true, thought Greta, feeling sorry for Alex.

  By the time Greta returned to the house she found it empty. She wondered how long it would take Alex to collect his gear and get back home. She remembered how down in the dumps he had been on the way home. Perhaps the same thing had occurred to him as it had to Miss Birkett, but at least he could comfort himself with the thought that his mother had not forgotten about him. Greta still had mixed feelings about Mrs Armstrong despite Alex’s defence of her.

  Although it was a warm day, Greta relit the fire and set about peeling vegetables for the stew that evening. She thought about Alex staying under the same roof. It would be lovely having him around as long as he didn’t try to boss her about. She sighed, remembering his comment about her being pushy for a girl her age. He wasn’t that much older than her. If he had been two years old when her mam had left to get married, that would make him about sixteen. Maybe he’d like to go to the pictures one night in the week.

  He would probably enjoy seeing a film after being away at sea so long.

  She wondered what he would do next about finding his mother and sisters. He had never said how old his sisters were or mentioned their names. What would they have thought when separated from him? Surely they’d have been upset? She placed the stew in the oven, made herself a cup of tea and went out to the front with the drink and Red Letter magazine, to enjoy the sunshine and wait for Alex’s return.

  Vera was sitting in a chair on the step, obviously struggling to turn a heel on a khaki sock, whilst Rene was emptying a small, steaming heap of horse manure onto the soil at the base of a rose bush in the centre of the tiny garden.

  ‘You must have been quick to get that,’ said Greta, watching her.

  Rene’s eyes twinkled. ‘As it happens I was cleaning the windows when the coal lorry went up the street. I wasted no time when the horse dropped its load and raced Mrs Woods for it.’ Rene straightened, easing her back.

  Greta glanced in Vera’s direction and decided she didn’t want Rene’s mother knowing her business, so she lowered her voice. ‘I’ve got something to tell you!’

  Rene looked down at her. ‘Something exciting by the look on your face.’

  ‘It is … but sad, as well. Me and Dad went to meet Alex’s ship and when we got to the dockyard we found there’d been an accident. Something to do with a steam pipe bursting and-and you should have seen some of the men’s faces.’ Greta shuddered.

  ‘Alex wasn’t hurt?’ said Rene.

  ‘No! It wasn’t his ship but he went down into the bowels of the other one and so did Dad. He helped to bring a couple of the men up and Dad ended up having to go to hospital.’

  Rene’s face blanched and she dropped the shovel. ‘Harry was hurt?’

  Greta rolled her eyes. ‘His breathing was all over the place! So while he went off in the ambulance, Alex and I went to see if we could find his mother’s whereabouts.’

  ‘Never mind that now … is Harry OK?’

  Greta nodded her head vigorously. ‘He’s been home and gone out again so he must be OK.’

  Rene smiled her relief. ‘Of course, he must. So did you find Alex’s mother?’

  Greta heaved a sigh and then shook her head. ‘She’d done a flit but we already knew she probably wouldn’t be there because in her last letter she wrote that she was getting married to a man with a bicycle shop.’

  ‘Lucky her!’ said Rene, bending to pick up the shovel.

  Vera called, ‘Who’s lucky? What’s all the whispering about? Doesn’t Greta know it’s rude to whisper in company? I heard Harry’s name mentioned. Are you planning to do something with him, Rene?’ There was suspicion in her voice.

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’ said Rene, facing Vera. ‘I think you’re going deaf, Mother.’

  Vera’s face flushed with fury and she dropped her knitting on the step. ‘Don’t tell me I’m going deaf! Now pick that sock up for me! You’re going to have to turn the heel. I can’t be arsed with the bloody thing! Be arsed, be arsed!’ she yelled, startling not only the cat that was cleaning itself on the pavement but Greta, Rene and the neighbours.

  A shocked Greta stared at her, never having heard Vera lose her temper and swear before. She swallowed an embarrassed giggle. Then watched as Rene picked up the knitting and Vera swiped her across the head with her clawed hand. ‘That’ll teach you to give cheek to me!’ she said savagely.

  Greta was even more shocked and willed Rene not to stand for such behaviour, but she just stood there looking stunned. Greta could not keep silent. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Mrs Miller! Rene’s a good daughter to you. What I was telling her is none of your business!’

  Vera’s face went puce and she looked as if about to explode. ‘Get off my step!’ she spluttered. ‘I don’t want you here! There’s been no peace since you and your father moved in next door.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ said Greta, losing her temper, oblivious to those of the neighbours who had been gossiping five minutes ago but now had fallen silent. ‘But I’m going! I don’t want to stay on your stupid step. I feel sorry for Rene being your daughter, you old crow!’ She flounced away, picked up her cup and magazine from the lobby, and went indoors, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘That girl! I’ll speak to her father,’ said Vera, her body
shaking with rage.

  Rene felt sick with a mixture of red hot emotions. She was aware they were being watched by several pairs of eyes and overheard by children, playing a game of rounders, who had stopped to listen. She felt deeply humiliated, and so angry she wanted to smack her mother across the face. Instead, she picked up the ball of wool, which had unravelled, and took the knitting inside, knowing that she needed to calm down before attempting to assist her mother indoors.

  Greta felt gloriously alive. Was this how St George had felt when he had slain the dragon? Perhaps Mrs Miller would think twice before treating and speaking to Rene the way she had again. She should appreciate her daughter more. It was because of her that Rene was not married. Greta felt certain there were plenty of fellas who’d have proposed to Rene. She was such a lovely person, helpful and caring.

  It was lousy for Mrs Miller, of course, being crippled, but Greta remembered overhearing her own mother saying that Mrs Miller had been a right cow to her husband, who’d been in a bad way after the Great War, so perhaps she was being punished and serve her right.

  Later, Greta went out to buy an Echo from the newsagent’s round the corner. She was reading the report of the accident in the newspaper when she literally bumped into Rene. ‘Sorry!’ said Greta.

  ‘I should think so, too! I’m still trying to unruffle Mother’s feathers and get her down from the roof,’ said Rene severely.

  Greta hung her head and sighed in mock contrition. ‘Sorry again! That’s a good joke about the feathers and the roof, by the way.’

  ‘It was no joke! Mother was that mad with the pair of us that she got up out of her chair and zoomed up the lobby to tell me exactly what she thought of you. She’s going to have a word with your dad about you.’

  ‘Oh dearie me,’ said Greta, putting on a squeaky voice. ‘He’ll tie me to the yard arm and give me ten lashes.’

  Rene’s eyes twinkled. ‘You are naughty! Anyway, what’s so interesting that you can’t wait to get home to read it?’

  Greta thrust the newspaper at her and stabbed the article with a forefinger. ‘It’s in the paper about the accident.’