A Place To Call Home

by June Francis

  Edith placed her cup in its saucer with a shaking hand, amazed at the extent of the rage she felt because he hadn’t told her that he had a daughter. In fact she felt quite faint.

  Harry leaned towards her, his expression concerned. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Cox? You’ve gone pale.’ He reached out a hand to her.

  She clutched it and whispered, ‘Memories! I, too, lost a son and daughter in infancy,’ she lied. ‘Forgive me. I don’t usually lose control.’ She reached for the handkerchief tucked up her sleeve.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to go,’ he said, freeing his hand.

  ‘No, no! It helps having you here.’ She stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘I get lonely when the girls are out. You know what it’s like when they’re that age … always gadding about. Not that they’re not good girls,’ she added, hastily, at the expression on his face.

  ‘They shouldn’t be leaving you alone evenings,’ he said sternly.

  ‘You don’t understand. There are times when I want to be alone,’ she babbled. That was true. She had chased Winnie out the back as soon as she’d seen him through the window coming up the street. ‘Besides I want them to get on with their lives. They’re only young and, with all this talk of war, they’ll have to grow up quickly if it comes. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the last war, either.’

  ‘Who could? I lost three brothers. By the end of it my mother had died of a broken heart, and then my father died in the flu epidemic of 1919.’

  ‘How terrible for you! I, too, lost my parents young.’ Her mouth trembled, then she forced a smile. ‘Enough of far off sad things!’ She decided to take a risk. ‘Tell me, Mr Peters, do you like the cinema?’

  He forced a smile. ‘Aye! I like a good film. Not these singing and dancing ones but a comedy or a good thriller.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘I’m just the same,’ she lied. ‘Those musicals, where people burst out into song on trolley cars or in the street and start dancing, are so unrealistic. Of course, at the moment, I’m too sad to enjoy a good film but maybe with time I’ll be able to get pleasure from life again. We parents have to go on for our children’s sake. I’m sure you know exactly how I feel?’ She could tell from his face that he thought he did because he was grieving still for his beloved wife and children. ‘Perhaps when I feel I can face going out again we might see a film?’ she suggested.

  He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Why not.’

  That was good enough for her. She reached for the teapot. ‘More tea?’

  7

  Greta looked up as her father came into the kitchen, hating the fact that he had visited that widow again last night. He had been quite brazen about it, saying that he was taking Mrs Cox to an Oyster Bar for supper. Last time he had taken her to the pictures. Her chest swelled with indignation, remembering how he’d polished his shoes until they shone, before putting on a clean shirt, collar and tie and his best suit. He had gone out, smelling of Brylcreem and shaving soap, humming a dance tune beneath his breath. She had wanted to hit him.

  How could he behave in such a way when her mother hadn’t even been in her grave a year? As for Mrs Cox, whose husband had died only two months ago. What were they to make of her? Yesterday was the fifth time Harry had seen her and obviously he was trying to create a good impression. But for what purpose? Greta worried that Mrs Cox might have marriage on her mind and the existence of the two daughters, also, made her uneasy. Maybe it was because she was reminded of the ugly sisters and the stepmother out of Cinderella.

  Harry dropped a newspaper on the table and took off his jacket. ‘The King has signed the order for full mobilisation of British forces! Emergency Control is in force in Liverpool.’ Despite the grimness of his words there was a sparkle in his eyes. Although he had an overriding horror of war, he felt a peculiar sense of relief. At least the waiting was over and they knew what they were up against. It also meant he was going to have his evenings taken up with ARP work.

  Since he had kissed Rene he had known he needed a good reason to prevent them being tempted into a clandestine affair. Surely he wasn’t mistaken about her wanting him or that she would suffer the same guilt if they fell into bed together? Besides, he could imagine what Mrs Miller would say to her daughter if she ever got wind of a real affair between them. That was why he had deliberately set out to place a barrier between himself and Rene by letting it be known that he was taking Edith Cox out on a regular basis.

  This wasn’t true. All he had done so far was to visit her. But he’d decided if his relation with the widow was to be taken seriously by Rene, then it had to appear that they were going out together. Now he wondered if he’d been a little crazy to have thought up such a plan. From the expression on Greta’s face, his daughter obviously disapproved strongly of the association. Cissie probably felt the same. His other problem was that he could be heading for trouble with the widow. He wasn’t a vain man but he’d have to be blind not to have noticed Edith fancied him. It was probably the loneliness that was making her come on to him so soon. Fortunately, so far, he had managed to keep her at arms’ length.

  ‘Wake up, Dad! You seem to have gone into a trance,’ snapped Greta. ‘What happens next?’

  Harry roused himself from his reverie. ‘Five mobile control bases are in place in our area, the nearest First Aid post is in Belmont Road Institution.’ He placed his hands on the table and stared at his daughter. ‘It’s come, girl, and you and your gran are out of here. I’ll take no more shilly-shallying from either of you. For your own safety, you’re going!’

  Greta was determined he was not going to get rid of her or her gran, especially with that widow on the scene. More than once she had recalled his words about her mother telling him something before she died and wished for the courage to ask him what it was that had made him so angry. She sighed, and reined in her thoughts. Now was not the right time to be thinking about it, she ought to concentrate on the matter in hand. She knew whole schools were being evacuated, three million children was the number bandied about so she definitely had a fight on her hands to stay at home. She glanced at her gran sitting bolt upright on her chair in front of the fire, before turning her attention back to her father. ‘I’m not a child, Dad! I’ll be leaving school next month and will be able to get a job here.’

  The old woman said, ‘You tell him, queen!’

  Harry’s frown deepened. ‘That’s beside the point! You can get war work in the country … work on a farm.’

  ‘I don’t want to work on a farm,’ she said indignantly, springing from her chair. ‘I want to work in an office and Miss Birkett’s promised me that I can work part time in her house and the shop until my birthday! She’ll help me learn to type. She has a typewriter since she took over as church magazine editor when the last one joined the army. Working on a farm won’t be of any use to me at all once the war’s over, so it’s a waste of time me doing it.’

  ‘And I’m definitely not going,’ said Cissie, folding her arms across her bosom. ‘My fella’s in the ARP and he said with the young ones joining the forces there’s plenty of war work even for a woman of my age.’

  Harry swore under his breath. Cissie and Greta looked at each other and winked. ‘Wash your mouth out with soap!’ they chorused.

  ‘You’re both enough to make a saint swear,’ muttered Harry, but a reluctant smile was tugging at his mouth.

  ‘And you’re no saint,’ said Cissie, her eyes challenging him.

  She didn’t have to put into words what she was insinuating and, for a moment, Harry was tempted to tell her what was behind his visits to Edith. Then he remembered her behaviour over the past years and his expression hardened. ‘You dare to judge me?’ he rasped.

  Cissie’s face turned puce and she dropped her gaze. Harry looked at his daughter. ‘You’ve still got to go.’

  Greta shook her head, her mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘You’ll have to carry me out kicking and screaming, Dad, if you want to get rid of me,’ she warned. ‘I won’t go willingly.’ />
  ‘I could do that, my girl!’ he retorted.

  Her face fell. ‘But-but you wouldn’t, would you, Dad? Please don’t make me go. I promise I’ll be off at the first sign of an enemy aircraft but until then let me stay!’ she pleaded.

  Silence.

  She did not take her eyes from his face and knew the moment he had decided to relent. ‘I have your promise, luv, that you’ll go when I say?’

  ‘Definitely, Dad!’ She crossed her fingers behind her back.

  ‘OK, then. We’ll see how things go,’ said Harry.

  *

  ‘D’you want me to fill that in for you, Mother?’ asked Rene, noticing the sour expression on Vera’s face as she read the application form for an identity card.

  Britain had been at war with Germany almost two months now and, so far, there had been no Jerry planes over Liverpool, but the U-boats had been in action from the day war was declared. The liner Athenia had been torpedoed a few hours out of Liverpool with the loss of one hundred and thirty one lives. Shortly after that terrible loss, a Fleetwood fishing boat had been sunk. Fortunately for the crew, the commander had a conscience and had ferried them to within five miles of the Lancashire coast and left them in a lifeboat where they had been picked up by a naval vessel.

  ‘You should have done it for me in the first place!’ Vera hit the arm of her chair with the fountain pen. ‘Identity cards, ration books, sticky tape on windows, buckets of water and stirrup pumps, gas masks, ugly blackout curtains! I don’t want to be arsed with them! I’m more bloody concerned with how I’m going to get to the shelter if there’s an air raid! That’s what really bloody concerns me.’

  ‘We’ll get you there, Mother, don’t you worry,’ soothed Rene, trying to hang on to her patience. Something she did not have much of since Greta had told her of Harry’s outings with the widow. She had told herself she had to accept that Harry’s kiss had been a spur of the moment thing, unlikely to be repeated. Yet the thought of him with another woman made her feel miserable as sin.

  ‘How are yer going to get me there?’ demanded Vera. ‘Push me in a wheelbarrow?’

  Rene looked at Wilf. ‘There’s an idea,’ he said, and chuckled.

  Vera called him a very rude name.

  His expression changed and he got to his feet. ‘I’ll go and see if the hens have settled,’ he said gruffly.

  Rene rested her hand a moment on his shoulder as he brushed past her. ‘Don’t mind her,’ she whispered.

  ‘What was that?’ demanded Vera.

  ‘Not for your ears, Mother,’ said Rene, closing the back kitchen door on Wilf before turning to her.

  Vera dropped the form on the floor. ‘People whispering behind my back all the time! It’s not right!’ she grumbled.

  Rene left the form where it lay. She could have hit her mother but, instead, spooned cocoa into a plain white jug and sang loudly so she could not hear Vera’s mutterings.

  When Wilf came back into the kitchen, he picked up the form and placed it on the table. ‘I’m sorry!’ mumbled Vera.

  They both ignored her.

  ‘The hens are fattening up nicely,’ said Wilf. ‘I reckon we could have one for our Christmas dinner.’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ shouted Vera.

  Rene turned and looked at her. ‘Did you say something, Mother?’

  ‘I said I was sorry,’ she said sullenly.

  ‘I accept your apology,’ said Rene, smiling, and poured cocoa into a cup for Vera. ‘And I’ve been thinking that perhaps we could convert one of the chairs into a wheelchair … put castors on the feet.’

  ‘They wouldn’t last five minutes getting on and off the pavement,’ said Wilf. ‘You let me think about it a mo’!’

  Rene was glad to hand the problem over to him.

  Soon after, an homemade wheelchair made its appearance. Rene and Wilf had several dummy runs with it, and then used it for the occasional visit to the cinema. These pleasure palaces had been closed briefly in the aftermath of the declaration of war but the government, realising that people needed escapism, soon re-opened them. So, for a while, the wheeled chair was kept in the lobby ready for use, despite Rene banging her shins on it several times. Then as the weeks slipped by towards the first Christmas of the war and still there were no air raids, it was moved into the parlour out of the way.

  At the end of October, Harry heard about a vacancy for a junior clerk for a building material suppliers company and so Greta applied for the job and got it. Just before Christmas, she was working in their office in School Lane, to the rear of Church Street, the main shopping centre in the city. That day she had received a letter from Alex but there were bits cut out of it, so she could only hazard a guess at where he was and what he was up to. One thing was certain though, to her delight, he was hoping to be back in Britain for Christmas. She had mixed feelings about his determination to carry on with his search to find his mother and sisters; a part of her wanted him to be happily reunited with his family, whilst the other part worried that if he was, she would see little of him after that, if at all.

  In the meantime, Greta was enjoying the company of the older girls and women in the office, feeling almost grown up as she listened to their conversations about films, the shortage of men, dancing, the possibility of being called up and which arm of the forces to join. They also talked about the rationing that was to come into force in January.

  Already there were shortages of stockings, as factories were turned over to the war effort, and there was also a shortage of bricks. Thousands of surface shelters were being built as the U-boats got into their stride and Nazi warships roamed the North Atlantic. In France the expeditionary army was still fighting spasmodic long range artillery duels with the enemy.

  ‘I can’t see it being over by Christmas,’ said one of the women.

  ‘My younger brothers and sisters are coming home for Christmas,’ said a girl.

  They weren’t the only evacuees to be fetched home by their mothers. Children were arriving in their hundreds in Liverpool and lots of them flocked to see Father Christmas in Toy Town at T.J. Hughes departmental store in London Road.

  Greta was glad to hear the noise of children playing in the street, only wishing that Alf and Amy could have been amongst them. She still missed them but was starting to come to terms with her loss.

  Harry was not looking forward to Christmas at all. The last one had been bad enough. His grief had been so fresh, as was the wound caused by Sally’s deception; both had been physically painful. If it had not been for Greta, he would not have got out of bed. He knew, though, that this year he was going to have to put a better face on things for hers, and Cissie’s, sake.

  He had been put on the spot by Edith who asked what was he doing on Boxing Day. He had told the truth catching up on odd jobs and maybe going to the park to see some of the local lads playing football. She had suggested that he brought Greta to tea so that she and her girls could meet one another. He had greeted the idea with a blank stare, while inside he was frantically seeking to come up with the perfect excuse. Taking the step of bringing Edith, her girls and Greta together, hinted at the possibility of a future closeness between them which was far from his thoughts.

  Yet, Harry did not want to stop visiting her altogether. She helped keep his mind off Rene. Anyway, he did not want to hurt Edith’s feeling, so he had told her that Greta was expecting a friend to stay over Christmas, but had accepted her invitation to tea for himself.

  ‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fal-la-lah-la-lah-la-lah-la-lah!’ sang Greta, determined to be happy as she linked a green strip of paper through a yellow one and pasted it into a loop. After all, even the Government was allowing blackout restrictions to be lifted slightly because it was Christmas.

  ‘Someone’s cheerful!’

  Her smile vanished and she looked up at Harry. ‘Being miserable won’t bring them back, Dad. If they could see me being sad it would upset them. So I’m pretending.’

  He igno
red the dig and, despite his hurt, nodded. ‘You’re right, luv!’ He placed his knapsack on the floor by the door. ‘Any news from Alex?’

  ‘A telegram!’ She read his expression and reassured him quickly. ‘It was to say that he hopes to be here sometime this evening. He was paid off in Southampton and was catching the train up.’

  She marvelled that they could have got so fond of their burglar in such a short time. She couldn’t say that he was the elder brother that she had never had because she had feelings for him that weren’t a bit sisterly and could not wait to see him. It was also good for Harry to have another male in the house and might take his mind off the widow.

  Harry looked relieved and glanced at the clock. ‘Five hours to go. Where’s your gran?’

  ‘In the kitchen plucking a chicken.’

  ‘Chicken! I thought we were having rabbit.’ His face brightened. ‘I haven’t had chicken for … I don’t know how long! Bit late to be plucking it, though, isn’t she?’

  Greta chuckled. ‘We only got it an hour ago! Wilf sneaked in the back way and gave it to Gran. He said that he had a perfect right to give it to us because he had paid for the chicks and bought most of the feed … but just to save any trouble it’s best done this way.’

  Harry grinned. ‘Good ol’ Wilf! I don’t suppose Rene would mind but … ’

  ‘You don’t have to say anymore, Dad. Your tea’s in the oven, by the way. D’you mind getting it out yourself while I get on with this?’

  ‘Of course, I don’t mind. It’s Christmas, isn’t it? I’ll just wash my hands.’ He left her alone to carry on with her task.

  It was a quarter to midnight when a hammering was heard at the door. By then paper chains were strewn across the ceiling and a pan of giblet soup was simmering on the fire. Greta ran to answer the door.

  Alex stood before her with a haversack on his back and a seaman’s cap in his hand. Immediately he burst into Away in a Manger. He held out the cap with a grin. ‘Couple of coppers for the carol singer, missus!’