A Place To Call Home

by June Francis

  ‘I’m not sure when I’m free.’ He caught the flicker of disappointment in her eyes and experienced that guilt again. ‘OK! I can’t say what evening but I’ll call on spec and see if you’re in.’

  ‘That’ll be lovely. I’ll be waiting,’ she murmured. ‘But you know, Harry, I’ve just realised I don’t even have your address. If I needed to get in touch with you … say, I had to move suddenly for instance … how would I let you know?’

  He hesitated, then taking a scrap of paper and pencil from his pocket, he wrote his address down and handed it to her. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  She thanked him, pocketed the slip of paper and saw him to the door. She watched him walk away and then went into the back kitchen and slapped Winnie on the arm.

  ‘What’s that for?’ cried the girl.

  ‘You know what for,’ said Edith, exasperated. ‘He was just making a move and you burst in.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to marry him! He’s not my dad,’ wailed her daughter.

  ‘Your dad is dead and I need a man in my life!’ yelled Edith, and stormed out of the room, leaving Winnie weeping over the pan of vegetables on the gas cooker.

  *

  Greta was thinking of the Coxes as she and Alex walked back from Newsham Park. ‘Do you think Mrs Cox and her daughters are still living in their house? I mean, they’re so close to the docks.’

  Alex slanted a sidelong glance at her and looked amused. ‘Are you thinking that’s where he’s gone today?’

  She smiled and slipped her hand through his arm. ‘How well you know me. Generally, he comes and watches you play.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask him if you’re so worried,’ suggested Alex, as they walked along a tree lined drive.

  ‘Perhaps I will.’ She toyed with the brooch on her lapel. It was two years since Alf and Amy had died. Two years her dad had been without a wife. If only he and Rene could get together, but that awful mother of hers just made it impossible.

  ‘So what d’you think?’

  Alex’s voice roused Greta from her reverie. ‘What?’

  A smile lurked in his slate grey eyes. ‘Forgotten your own question? The Coxes! They could have moved out. A bomb destroyed a couple of houses and a church in Great Mersey Street a short while ago.’

  She stilled. ‘How d’you know that? Have you been round there with Dad so you could get a glimpse of the blonde bombshell?’

  He fixed her with a stare. ‘I think she’d have better fish to fry than the likes of me. Besides when do I get the time? I haven’t even begun the search again for Mum and the girls,’ he rasped. ‘I shouldn’t have let your dad persuade me into joining the Sunday football team.’

  ‘But the team needs you. It’s short of good players with so many men in the forces … besides, it’s good for you to get the fresh air.’

  He looked exasperated. ‘But you don’t understand how frustrating it is not knowing where they are! I feel like I’m just marking time until I’m called up for the forces.’

  Greta did not want to think about Alex going away. She was glad of his company and squeezed his arm affectionately. ‘Don’t let’s think about that … and we’ve got off the subject of Dad and the widow. I bet Dad’s been there if he knows about the bomb damage in her street. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself.’ She chewed on her lower lip.

  Alex creased his brow and a lock of nut brown hair flopped onto his forehead. He brushed it back with fingers roughened by handling bricks and rubble and sighed. ‘What have you got against her? She might be a really nice woman.’

  Greta crinkled her nose. ‘I have this picture in my mind of the wicked stepmother and her daughters in Cinderella.’

  ‘With you in the role of Cinders, I suppose. There’s several things wrong with that picture, kid,’ he said dryly.

  She gave him a honeyed smile. ‘I know! Miss Joyce Cox isn’t ugly.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to mention her.’ His tone was mild. ‘What I was going to say was your gran doesn’t actually fit the role of the fairy godmother no wand or wings but even so I couldn’t see her allowing Mrs Cox to take over the household and turn you into a drudge.’

  ‘No, but-but what if she-she was to die?’ Greta forced down the sudden lump in her throat. ‘I mean … you know how she visits Mick some evenings and his place is right by the docks. She’s been caught out in a raid before today.’

  ‘You know her philosophy.’ Alex rubbed his chin where Greta now noticed there was a smear of mud.

  ‘Pardon?’ She took out a handkerchief and dampened it with spit.

  Alex mimicked to perfection Cissie’ voice. ‘When yer number’s up, yer number’s up!’

  ‘Oh that!’ Greta drew him to a halt and reaching up with the handkerchief she rubbed his cheek. ‘You’re a mucky so and so. There! All gone!’ She could not resist kissing the spot.

  There was speculative look in his eyes as he gazed down at her. ‘She’s got a point. No where’s safe! That’s why you should do what your dad says and leave Liverpool.’

  She returned his stare. ‘Well, I’m not going. I’ll take my chances with the rest of you. I go down to the cellar, so I’m OK. Unless you’d argue with that and say Dad hasn’t made a good job of making it safe?’

  ‘I’d trust your dad more than any other man I know. He’s the right bloke to have in a tight spot.’ He took her arm and hurried her across the road and paused briefly outside St Margaret’s Church. ‘Shall we get back to Cinderella? Who are we casting me as … Buttons or Prince Charming?’

  A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. ‘Well, you’ve no fortune or palace so … ’

  He groaned. ‘Is that all a girl wants a bloke for … to provide for her?’

  ‘What else?’ Her eyes danced. ‘Although, it could be different after the war if the Labour Party gets in and they start doing things for us women.’

  ‘Us women?’ he teased. ‘How old were you last month?’

  Greta flushed. ‘I’m an old soul! I’ve had to grow up fast,’ she said seriously.

  Alex stared at her thoughtfully and then nodded. ‘I think most our age are doing that with this war. That’s what makes it so frustrating and worrying, not knowing where my mum and sisters are. I try not to think of the worst that could happen to them but sometimes … ’

  She put her hand through his arm once more and squeezed it. ‘I know how you must feel. I’ve been there.’ There was a tremor in her voice.

  ‘I know.’ He lowered his head and his lips brushed hers as lightly as thistledown. ‘Let’s drop the subject until I can do something about finding them.’

  Greta agreed, thinking she would never forget the feel of his lips on hers even as she told herself it was just a brotherly kiss. They were silent as they walked the rest of the way home.

  The sirens sounded that evening just after seven o’clock. As they reached the command post Harry and Alex were informed that this was no ordinary raid. A purple warning had been received from Defence Headquarters, wave after wave of bombers were heading up the Mersey. Within the hour, information was being received of the destruction of property by incendiary and high-explosive bombs and, for the first time since the raids began, parachute mines were spotted drifting silently to earth with devastating effect.

  Greta and Rene emerged from their cellars and stood on their respective steps, hugging themselves with nervous excitement and relief that they were still alive. The raid had carried on well into Monday morning. ‘Dear God!’ said Greta, her voice shaking. ‘I never thought it was going to end. I hope Dad, Alex and Gran are OK!’

  Rene nodded, trying not to breathe in too deeply. The acrid smell of explosives, smoke and dust was greasy and overpowering. She pointed to the sky beyond the roofs of the houses on the opposite side of the street. Clouds of smoke billowed high into the air and the glow of fires made it appear like day. They could hear the crackle of flames and the shouts of men in the distance.

  ‘It’s terrifying,’ gulped Greta, an
icy coldness gripping her. ‘I don’t want to look. I think I’ll go in.’

  ‘I’d come and keep you company,’ said Rene, concerned, ‘only Mother will be shouting for me any minute.’

  ‘It’s OK!’ said Greta, attempting to ease the tightness in her throat. ‘I’m OK on my own.’

  Rene kissed her cheek. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Greta went inside and made herself a cup of tea and then fetched a blanket and curled up on the sofa, convinced she would not sleep until Harry, Alex and Cissie arrived home. She was tense with anxiety but due to nervous exhaustion she dozed off eventually.

  When she woke, it was to find that she was still alone in the house. Uncertain what to do, she decided to stick to the general motto of those involved in this war and carry on as normal. She told herself that if anything had happened to Harry or Alex then she would have learnt about it by now. She was not so sure about her gran and was bracing herself for bad news as she left the house.

  ‘You OK?’ said Rene, hunching her shoulders inside her coat.

  ‘None of them came home,’ said Greta, trying not to sound worried as she closed the door behind her. It was a cold, bleak morning and the smell of smoke and explosives still hung in the air.

  ‘I stayed awake for a while but I didn’t hear them come in,’ said Rene. ‘They’re probably OK, though. It was such a bad raid that Harry and Alex would be kept busy still, I should imagine.’

  Greta nodded and dug her hands into her coat pockets. ‘I’m seriously worried about Gran.’

  Rene put an arm about Greta’s shoulders and hugged her. ‘She’s a survivor! She’ll be home, just you wait and see.’

  Greta nodded, unable to speak.

  Later, as Greta took the cover off her typewriter, one of the girls said, ‘Have you heard that there’s fires a mile long down at the docks. The Jerries certainly know what to aim for, don’t they?’

  ‘What about the streets down by the docks?’ asked Greta anxiously.

  The girl sighed. ‘Some are bound to have been hit. Why? Do you know someone living down there?’

  ‘My gran went to visit a-a friend and she hadn’t come home when I left this morning.’ Tears shone in Greta’s eyes. ‘We don’t even know the name of the street where he lives.’

  The girl said quickly, ‘She could still be OK. There’s still plenty of streets standing. Besides, she could have got to a shelter.’

  Greta hoped so but she was starting to think like her grandmother. When your number was up, then it was up. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She mustn’t think the worst. She sat down at her desk and got on with her work, praying that she would find her grandmother, Alex and Harry waiting for her when she got home.

  The house was in darkness when Greta arrived there. She pulled a chair from the table and fumbled for the matches on the sideboard and lit the gas. Only then did she see Cissie sitting in the chair in front of the empty fireplace, still wearing her coat and hat.

  Greta felt a surge of joy. ‘Gran, you’re OK! What are you doing sitting in the dark without the fire on? What happened to you?’ Greta darted over to her, put an arm round her shoulders and kissed her cold cheek. ‘You’re freezing.’ There was no response. ‘What’s the matter? Are you hurt?’ The girl gazed into the old woman’s face and was shocked. The light had gone out of her eyes and there was no hint of recognition in them. ‘Gran!’ Greta shook her. ‘Gran, it’s me, Greta! Say something!’

  Cissie blinked. ‘He’s dead! My Mick’s dead.’ The words were only a thread of sound. Greta could not think of anything to say, could only wish that her mother was there. ‘I thought things were going to go right for me at last,’ whispered Cissie. ‘We went to church. The service was over when the raid started and I stayed on me knees, praying that God would forgive me my sinful life and that me marriage could be annulled. Mick had gone into the vestry to talk to the priest, and … ’ She stopped.

  Greta waited for her to continue. Several minutes ticked by and still her grandmother was silent. Greta decided they could not carry on sitting in the cold and slowly released her hold on her grandmother. Hurriedly she cleared out the ashes and scrunched newspaper. She fetched wood and coal and got the fire going. She had just put on the kettle when she heard the sound of a key in the lock.

  She left her grandmother and rushed to the front door. As soon as she saw her father she threw herself at him. ‘Thank God, you’re here! Gran’s in a state! Mick’s dead!’

  Harry swore softly, and setting her aside, stumbled up the lobby. Greta looked at Alex, who stood swaying on the step. ‘You OK?’ she asked, knowing he wasn’t.

  He moistened his lips with his tongue but made no answer. She put her arm through his and drew him into the house. Only when they entered the kitchen was she able to see just how filthy he was and that his eyes were not only bloodshot but dazed. He made no move to sit on a chair but stood, swaying in the middle of the room. She took a newspaper and placed it on a chair and then, putting her arm through his, led him over to it, and pushed him gently down. ‘You’ll feel more yourself when you’ve had a cup of tea,’ she said.

  Alex nodded, his shoulders drooped and he stared into the fire with his hands held loosely in his lap. Greta willed the fire to burn redder so she could put the kettle on. She put out a hand and stroked his hair back from his forehead and planted a kiss there, wondering what sights he had seen to cause him to be like this.

  ‘Has she said what happened?’ asked Harry, who was on his knees beside Cissie’s chair.

  ‘They were in church. She was praying and Mick had gone into the vestry with the priest.’ With a pain in her heart, Greta glanced at her grandmother. ‘That’s all she told me.’

  Harry nodded slowly. ‘It can happen like that. Some are taken and some are left behind.’ He sighed deeply, then forced his shoulders back and said, ‘I could do with a bloody bath.’

  ‘Let the fire burn up a bit, Dad, and then we’ll warm up the kettles and bring in the tin bath,’ she said.

  He stared at her and then began to laugh. He went on laughing until she thought he would choke. She went over and shook him. ‘Stop it! Stop it, Dad! She’ll be OK. She’s got us.’

  ‘Us!’ he spluttered, and carried on laughing.

  She shook him again. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ She felt desperate and slapped his face. His laughter came to an abrupt halt. Tears had formed rivulets in the dirt on his unshaven face, and like Alex’s, his eyes were bloodshot. Now they were … oh, so sad!

  ‘A bath,’ she said. ‘You can both have a bath. It’ll make you feel better.’ She sat him down and when the fire was red she made tea and soup. Then she boiled more water and brought in the tin bath while her three casualties sat, grieving. It took a lot of kettles to fill the bath six inches and then she did not even have the pleasure of seeing the men sink themselves into the water. She would have scrubbed them clean if they’d allowed it. Instead she saw her gran upstairs to bed, undressing her and providing her later with a hot water bottle. Then she went next door and told Rene that her family were home but that Mick was dead.

  ‘Poor Mrs Hardcastle,’ said Rene with heartfelt sympathy. ‘She was so happy to have found him.’

  ‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ muttered Vera. ‘She should have known better at her age.’

  Greta shot her a look of disgust and left the house before she said something that would make Rene’s life more difficult.

  Harry and Alex were out of the bath and with towels wrapped about their waists. At least they looked clean, even though the sadness and shock were still there in their eyes. She wanted to run her hands over Alex’s shoulders and chest and kiss his pain better but instead she made cocoa and ordered them to bed.

  Harry and Alex never spoke of the bodies they had dug out that day. Neither did Cissie tell of how Mick had died. The old woman would weep in her sleep and Greta would put her arm round her and make soothing noises, just as her mother had done when she was upset as a child.
Eventually the sobs would die down and all went silent. In the weeks that followed Cissie was a shadow of the woman she had been. She gave up her job at the pub, and seemed to grow old before their eyes. But Greta was thankful that, at least, during that time the bombers stayed away and Alex and Harry were able to get some rest.

  10

  They were just over a week into 1941 when the sirens went. Greta was on her way home from work on the tram and almost immediately it stopped to let people off and they scattered down Breck Road. She flicked the switch on her torch but it gave off only a faint light and she remembered that she had meant to buy a new battery. Damn! She could hear the engine of an aeroplane and recognised it as a German Junker, so regardless of the uselessness of her torch she put on a spurt, determined not to stop until she arrived home. Then she heard footsteps behind her and a familiar voice called, ‘Is that you, Greta?’

  The girl whirled round and peered at the shadowy figure behind the wavering beam of the torch. ‘Rene?’

  ‘Yes!’ She grabbed Greta’s hand and pulled it through her arm. ‘Let’s go!’ she said.

  They ran for their lives to the accompaniment of the boom boom of explosives and the ack ack of the defence artillery. They had just passed the De la Salle school on Breckfield Road South when a man spoke behind them. ‘Am I near Barnes Street?’ he said.

  ‘This should be it coming up,’ gasped Rene.

  ‘Thanks!’ He passed them and they dogged his footsteps, even following him as he took a short cut through an entry. They were halfway along it when there was a terrific bang somewhere to the rear of them and they were sent flying.

  Greta landed flat on the pavement at the other end of the entry with her ears ringing, feeling completely disoriented. For a moment she had trouble breathing and thought she was going to die, but she managed to catch her breath and lift her head and gaze about for Rene, but she could not see properly and panicked, thinking she would go blind. Suddenly her vision cleared and she saw Rene lying a few feet away. Greta tried to call her but only a faint thread of sound came from her mouth. So she began to drag herself towards Rene, aware of pain in her hands and face.