Through The Storm

by Maureen Lee

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said in a tone of voice that told Nan she wasn’t okay at all. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can with the shopping. You can give me the money when I get back.’

  ‘All right, luv. There’s no hurry. I’ll see you later.’

  Kitty left, and Aggie Donovan came sidling over and nodded at her retreating figure. ‘They got a letter this morning at number twenty. It came in a brown envelope.’

  ‘Did it now!’ said Nan, adding sarcastically, ‘What did it say?’

  But the sarcasm was wasted on Aggie. ‘How should I know?’ she asked indignantly.

  As she made her way towards the shops in Marsh Lane, Kitty thought about the letter that had arrived for her that morning. Apparently, the Ministry of Labour classified her as a single woman without dependants and demanded that she present herself at the local Labour Exchange next Monday morning at half past ten to register for war work.

  There was nothing in the world Kitty wanted more than to get a job and do her bit towards the war effort. There were times when she felt as if the conflict was passing her by; that one morning she would wake up and it would all be over and Kitty Quigley wouldn’t have done a single thing to help her country win, not even in a voluntary capacity. In 1939, when it first started, Dad had nearly been in tears when she suggested she become an Air-Raid Warden or an Auxiliary Fire Fighter or join the Women’s Voluntary Service.

  ‘But what happens if those air raids they’re all talking about get going?’ he asked piteously. ‘Your poor ould dad’ll be left all on his own.’

  ‘You can always go to the shelter,’ Kitty said reasonably. ‘They’ve built one only just round the corner. One of the neighbours’ll come in and help you get there,’ she added quickly before he could raise that particular objection.

  But Dad immediately thought of another. ‘Say if the worst happens and you’re killed! Who’ll look after me then? I’d have to go in a home.’ His eyes became moist. ‘I couldn’t stand that, Kitty, luv. I’d sooner be dead meself than go in a home. No, I think we should stick together. That’s what families are supposed to do during wartime, stick together if they can.’

  Kitty loved her dad dearly. She couldn’t stand it when he cried. She knew he missed his mates and the camaraderie of the docks. He hated being an invalid and dependent on his daughter for virtually every little thing. For his sake, she immediately gave up all thought of joining a voluntary organisation and later on, during the raids, she and Dad sat under the stairs when the bombs fell on Bootle. Sometimes, during a lull, she could hear singing coming from the shelter around the corner, where everyone seemed to be having a dead good time despite the horrendous things happening outside.

  There was a queue outside Costigans when Kitty arrived. There was always a queue outside any sort of shop that sold food – some women came well before they were due to open in order to be first – but this queue seemed unusually long, which meant there must be something special on sale.

  ‘What have they got?’ Kitty asked the woman at the back.

  ‘I dunno, luv. Look, keep me place a mo, and I’ll pop up to the front and see.’

  Kitty willingly agreed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I hope it’s biscuits,’ another woman said. ‘I haven’t had a biscuit in ages.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind biscuits either, custard creams.’ Kitty’s mouth watered at the idea of dipping a custard cream in a cup of tea. It hadn’t exactly seemed a delicacy before the war, but now … ‘On the other hand, me dad was only saying the other night he really fancied sardines on toast.’

  ‘Aye, sardines’d be a nice treat.’

  The first woman returned to reclaim her place. ‘It’s baked beans,’ she announced excitedly. ‘One for each ration book.’

  Two more women had come up behind Kitty. ‘What’s the queue for, luv?’ one asked.

  ‘Baked beans.’

  Kitty waited for nearly an hour, praying all the time the beans wouldn’t be sold out before her turn came. She emerged, triumphant, with three tins, one for Nan Wright, together with some other rations; tea, sugar and half a pound of nice lean bacon. They could have bacon and beans for dinner today.

  She then queued for bread, queued for potatoes, and decided not to bother with the butcher’s when she discovered there was only the hated whalemeat on offer. Perhaps Nan would like a few slices of the bacon? Several women were waiting outside the shop as there was a rumour sausages might be available soon. The butcher didn’t dare announce the sausages were definite, else word would flash round like wildfire, and he’d end up with a queue a mile long and a possible riot on his hands if there wasn’t enough to go round.

  On the way home, Kitty called in the newsagent’s shop to collect the Daily Herald. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ciggies?’ she asked hopefully.

  Ernie Johnson, a middle-aged man with a severe squint, gave her a suggestive wink from behind the counter with his best eye. ‘Give us a kiss, and I’ll let you have ten Woodbines.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing,’ said Kitty indignantly. ‘Have you really got Woodbines, Ernie? Me dad hasn’t had a smoke in weeks.’

  ‘Can I pinch your bum, then?’

  ‘No you can’t!’

  ‘In that case, what’ll you give me for ten Woodbines?’

  ‘The money!’

  Ernie sighed as he produced the ciggies from underneath the counter. ‘There’s some women’d dance round me shop stark naked for them.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I’ll come in here again once the war’s over,’ Kitty said threateningly.

  ‘Can you imagine it being over, Kitty?’ Ernie’s face grew serious.

  Kitty thought, then shook her head. ‘No. It’s funny, but it feels as if we’ve always been at war and it’ll never stop. I’ve even got used to the bomb sites. I can hardly remember Marsh Lane all built up like it used to be.’

  ‘I feel the same.’ Ernie seemed to be looking at Kitty with one eye and the door with the other. She remembered he had two sons, both in the army, though he was always good-humoured in a crude sort of way. ‘I wonder if things’ll ever be normal again?’

  The door opened and a man poked his head in. ‘Any ciggies?’

  ‘No, mate,’ Ernie shook his head.

  ‘Ernie!’ Kitty said reproachfully when the door had closed.

  ‘Well, I’ve never seen him before. I keep the ciggies for me favourite customers – and there’s none more favourite than you, Kitty.’

  He smacked his lips and made to come round the counter, and Kitty quickly escaped. She was never quite sure if Ernie was joking or not.

  ‘Kitty!’

  A pretty, harassed-looking woman pushing a black pram containing two rather large children came panting up when Kitty emerged from the newsagent’s. ‘They’ve got baked beans in Costigans.’

  Sheila Reilly had been in the same class as Kitty at school. She’d been Sheila Doyle from Garnet Street in those days, but had moved to Pearl Street when she married Calum Reilly, a merchant seaman who was away most of the time.

  ‘I know, I got some. I got one for Nan Wright, too. Did you know Ernie Johnson’s got ciggies?’

  ‘I’ve already bought a packet for me dad. He’s a dirty bugger, that Ernie. The things he asked me to do!’ She stopped the pram and fanned her face with her hand. ‘Phew! I’m sweating like a cob. Here, put your bags in the pram, Kit. That’s why I bring it. Our Mary’s two and Ryan’s three and they’re far too big to be pushed round, but it saves having to carry all me shopping. There’s no way I could cart home seven tins of beans, along with everything else.’

  ‘Mam!’ the children complained in unison as Kitty gratefully planted her two bags on their feet.

  ‘Shurrup, youse two, else I’ll make you walk,’ Sheila told them severely. She smiled at Kitty. ‘Kids!’

  Sheila had six children; the older four were at school. The two women had been good friends once, though nowadays Kitty avoided her whenever she could as long as it didn’t invo
lve being rude. Sheila Reilly with her vast family made her feel uncomfortable, like a dried-up old maid. Sometimes, Kitty felt it wasn’t just the war which was passing her by, but life itself.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Sheila asked as they walked back home. ‘I haven’t seen you for a natter in ages. Why don’t you pop in for a cup of tea now’n again? We could talk about old times.’

  Because they’re the last thing I want to talk about, thought Kitty. It would only remind her of the hopes and dreams she’d once had, that the three of them had had; Brenda Mahon, Sheila and Kitty. They’d stayed friends after they left school at thirteen and went out to work. They’d done the First Fridays together, made the Stations of the Cross each Easter, gone to the pictures, giggled breathlessly over boys. She muttered something about how she’d love to pop in for a cup of tea, but her father always kept her busy.

  ‘Remember us hanging round North Park when it was dusk waiting for the Parkie to lock up? We used to have a fine ould time with the lads. We even had a bet once on which of us would be kissed first.’

  ‘I remember,’ Kitty said shortly.

  ‘You won. You were the best looking and drove the lads wild. Me and Brenda always thought you’d beat us getting married by a mile …’ Sheila paused as she turned the pram into Pearl Street, as if aware of how tactless she was being. Kitty Quigley had been stuck at home with her dad for ten whole years and denied the opportunity even of meeting a man, let alone marrying one. ‘Still,’ she finished lamely, ‘marriage isn’t the be-all and end-all of a woman’s existence, is it?’

  ‘I didn’t particularly want to get married, did I?’ Kitty did her best to sound cool and unperturbed. ‘I wanted to be a florist. I intended having me own shop eventually.’ She’d been working in Garlands in Stanley Road for nearly a year learning the trade, and distinctly remembered the day someone came running in to say her dad had been taken to Bootle hospital. Kitty left immediately to go and see him, never dreaming at the time she was leaving for good.

  Sheila began to manoeuvre the pram down the back entry. ‘That’s right, so you did. You were always the artistic one at school.’

  Though Kitty had assumed other things would be on the cards eventually; a husband, children, a home of her own. When they reached the Quigleys’ back door, she put her hand on the latch to go in.

  ‘Y’know,’ Sheila said, looking at Kitty thoughtfully, ‘I’ve often wondered what would have happened when your dad was hurt if you’d been a boy? Would you still have been expected to give up your job to look after him?’

  It was something Kitty had wondered herself, lately; not at first, but when she saw the young men being called up to fight regardless of their family circumstances. If she was a man, if she was called up, Dad would have no alternative but to manage on his own.

  ‘I dunno,’ she muttered. ‘I had a letter this morning from the Ministry of Labour.’ She had to tell someone. ‘They want me to register next Monday for war work.’

  ‘That’s good – isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Our Eileen had ever such a good time when she worked in the munitions factory. The women there were an absolute scream.’

  ‘I know. She told me about them.’ Sheila’s sister, Eileen, had lost her husband and little boy in the raids last Christmas. She’d recently remarried and left Pearl Street to live in Melling, a small village outside Liverpool. ‘It’s just that …’ Kitty paused.

  ‘What, luv?’

  A voice piped from the pram, ‘Mam, I’m thirsty.’

  ‘And I’m dying for a wee wee, Mam.’

  The children were becoming impatient waiting in the entry. Sheila plucked them out and shooed them into the house next door but one. She turned back to Kitty, aware something was wrong, her good-natured face full of concern. ‘What is it, luv?’ she asked again.

  ‘It’s just that … that me dad’s started writing down all the things I’ve got to say on Monday to persuade them not to take me,’ Kitty said in a rush. She felt cross with herself when halfway through her voice actually broke and she felt as if she could very easily cry.

  ‘C’mon, luv.’ Sheila put her hand on Kitty’s arm. ‘Let’s have that cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘But I’m already late,’ Kitty said tearfully. ‘I was ages in that queue waiting for the beans.’

  ‘So what? It won’t hurt your dad to wait a while longer.’ Sheila took Kitty’s hand and began to pull her along the entry as if she were a recalcitrant child. ‘I refuse to take no for an answer,’ she said firmly.

  The inside of Sheila’s house was more modern than most others in the street, one of the few to have electricity. It had once belonged to her sister and Sheila had lived opposite, but number 21 had been blown to smithereens in May, leaving the Reillys with nothing except the clothes they stood up in.

  ‘Still, we’re alive, that’s all that really matters,’ Sheila said staunchly at the time.

  Everywhere was cheerfully untidy when Kitty went in. There were toys on the floor, and in front of the green-tiled fireplace stood a clothes maiden heaped with children’s underwear in a variety of sizes; vests, underpants and an assortment of petticoats, liberty vests and knickers, all of which had been provided by the WVS. The wireless had been left on, loudly, and Vera Lynn was singing ‘Yours till the stars lose their glory …’ a song Kitty particularly liked. There was a large picture of the Sacred Heart over the mantelpiece, which Sheila had retrieved from their old house. The glass hadn’t even been scratched.

  Sheila immediately put the kettle on and Mary and Ryan went out to play. Soon, the two women were ensconced in front of the fire drinking the most insipid cup of tea Kitty had ever tasted.

  Sheila apologised for its paleness. ‘That’s this morning’s, with another few leaves added. Now,’ she said sternly, ‘what’s all this about your dad writing down what you’ve got to say on Monday?’

  ‘He doesn’t want me to go to work,’ Kitty said in a small voice. ‘He’s terrified of being left alone.’

  ‘As if he’d be alone in Pearl Street!’ Sheila snorted. ‘Why, the neighbours’d pop in and do everything that’s needed. Look at the way they all looked after Tony when our Eileen went to work in that factory!’

  ‘Yes, but it’s me he wants, Sheil, his own flesh and blood,’ Kitty explained. ‘I understand how he feels. He was such a strong man before the accident. He doesn’t want everyone to see the way he is now.’

  ‘He can’t be all that bad, luv, if he can get as far as the King’s Arms most nights for a pint.’

  ‘But it’s only on the corner, Sheil,’ Kitty protested. ‘And he has to use his sticks.’

  Sheila said casually, ‘According to me dad, once he’s there, he’s the life and soul of the party.’ Like most people, she was convinced Jimmy Quigley was taking his poor daughter for a ride. He wasn’t nearly as ill as he cracked up to be, not now. Of course, he’d been badly injured when the crate had fallen on his legs, breaking them in several places, but, as Kitty said, he was a strong man with strong bones, and strong bones mended easily. No-one minded the long drawn-out skive, but Sheila, in particular, minded the way he took advantage of her old friend’s affection and let her waste her life tending to his every need.

  Kitty’s already pink cheeks flushed even pinker with irritation. People were forever hinting Dad wasn’t as ill as he made out, but they weren’t there when she helped him up to bed at night, they didn’t hear him groan in agony with each step. He was only putting on a brave show in the King’s Arms, trying to make out he was better than he was.

  Noticing the flush, Sheila said gently, ‘I suppose you feel in a terrible pickle, wondering what to do?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Kitty nodded. ‘I feel torn in two sometimes. I’d love to go to work, I really would, but I feel dead selfish just thinking about it. Even when I suggest a part-time job, he gets upset. It’s not as if we need the money, though sometimes it’s hard scraping along o
n his pension. On the other hand …’ It would be nice to wear clothes that weren’t secondhand from Paddy’s Market. Although clothes rationing had begun earlier in the year, Kitty had never used a single coupon so far.

  ‘Everyone’s entitled to a life of their own, luv.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Of course they are!’ Sheila affirmed heartily. ‘I mean, your dad’s only fifty, three years younger than mine. He could live another thirty years – and you’ll be nearing sixty yourself by then!’

  Kitty shuddered. ‘Oh, Sheil!’

  ‘Of course, it’s none of my business, but even so, Kit, I hate to see you sacrifice yourself like this. I mean, you’ve never even had a proper boyfriend, have you? Those lads we used to knock around with were never serious.’ Despite the fact that Kitty’s face froze, Sheila pressed on, determined to make her friend see sense if at all possible. ‘You don’t get out to the pictures or go dancing like other girls.’

  ‘Well, y’see, me dad …’

  Sheila interrupted with, ‘I remember when it first happened and I used to try and persuade you to come out in a foursome with our Calum and his mate, Kevin Woods. Your dad always seemed to take a turn for the worse when the time came to go.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to Kevin Woods?’ Kitty said brightly.

  ‘That’s a nifty way of changing the subject. If you must know, he married a girl from Browning Street and they had two kids. He went down two years ago on the City of Benares when it was torpedoed on the way to America.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Kitty made a face. ‘I didn’t know.’ He’d seemed a nice lad, Kevin Woods, very thin, with sharp elbows and an Adam’s apple that wobbled noticeably when he spoke.