Through The Storm

by Maureen Lee

  Sheila supposed she’d better take the hint and talk about something other than Jimmy Quigley and his relationship with his daughter. She began to discuss that morning’s shopping. She’d considered joining the queue for sausages, but the whole thing was too up in the air. ‘I would have done if it had been definite, but I wasn’t prepared to wait when it might have been a waste of time. Anyroad, the kids’ll be thrilled to bits when they find there’s baked beans on toast for their tea. We were dead lucky, weren’t we, eh?’

  What Sheila didn’t realise was that this sort of discussion only made Kitty feel worse. People, particularly in queues, often spoke to her as if she were a housewife. They grumbled over prices, complained about the fact onions and lemons had virtually disappeared from the shops, wondered what had happened to offal – ‘Have you tried to get a bit of liver or kidney lately, luv?’ – asked her how many coupons you needed for sheets and pillowcases. No-one ever talked about hairstyles or the latest fashions. They assumed she was a married woman, as they all were.

  I suppose I am a housewife, in a sort of way, Kitty thought miserably. I do the shopping, the cleaning, the washing, make the meals, I darn socks, mend clothes, and do everything housewives usually do, except I don’t have any of the advantages, such as a husband and children to make it all seem worthwhile. She began to feel guilty again, because Dad needed her every bit as much as the other women’s families did. He wouldn’t be so desperate for her to stay with him if he didn’t.

  When Sheila asked if she’d washed her blackout curtains lately, Kitty decided it was time to go.

  ‘Well, I’d better be off. Nan Wright’s probably waiting for her ’taters. Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘She eats too many ’taters, that woman,’ Sheila said darkly. ‘She’s growing to look like one in her ould age.’

  ‘Where on earth have you been? I was getting worried about you.’

  Jimmy Quigley was sitting in his chair underneath the window, listening to the wireless and reading yesterday’s Daily Herald for the second time. The room was neatly dull compared to the Reillys’, reflecting Jimmy’s personality rather than his daughter’s. He abhorred fuss or ornaments and distracting colours which he claimed made him feel restless and on edge, so only a small chiming clock on a plain white runner stood on the otherwise bare sideboard, and the wooden mantelpiece held merely a solitary wedding photograph. The marble-patterned oilcloth was worn right through in places, but Kitty couldn’t imagine the time ever coming when there would be enough money to replace it.

  Her dad reached out eagerly for the newspaper, which he usually read from cover to cover. He wasn’t a tall man, Jimmy, but his shoulders were broad, his well-muscled arms brown from sitting outside in the yard. He looked younger than his years, with wild brown curly hair and a fresh complexion similar to his daughter’s, and appeared remarkably athletic, despite his crippled state. Jimmy had played for Everton Football Club Reserves when he was a teenager and had hoped to become a professional player, but although he was good, he wasn’t quite good enough.

  ‘There was a long queue at the grocer’s,’ Kitty explained as she handed the paper over. ‘I managed to get some baked beans.’

  ‘I could’ve sworn I heard your voice in the entry a while ago.’

  ‘That’s right, you did. I met Sheila Reilly on the way home and I went in hers for a cup of tea.’

  ‘And here’s me, been dying for a cuppa meself,’ he said peevishly.

  ‘In that case, I’ll fetch some water and put the kettle on.’

  Kitty went into the back kitchen and plonked her shopping on the wooden draining board with slightly more force than was necessary. She couldn’t even do what other housewives did, let alone a young single woman: in other words, pop into a neighbour’s for a jangle and a cup of tea, without feeling she was neglecting him.

  She filled the kettle, took it into the living room and put it on the hob over the fire to boil. Her dad had laid the paper down on his knee and was looking at her rather bemusedly. It was rare his Kitty appeared out of sorts.

  ‘What’s the matter, kiddo? Have you got the hump over something?’

  ‘No, Dad.’

  ‘Yes you have. Come on, spit it out. What’s up?’

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong with having a cup of tea with Sheila,’ Kitty burst out.

  ‘Of course there’s nothing wrong,’ he said, astonished. ‘Who said there was?’

  Kitty felt confused. ‘The way you spoke just now, as if you were annoyed.’

  ‘Me, annoyed? Never! I was worried, that’s all. You can see Sheila Reilly whenever y’like, y’don’t have to mind me.’ He winced and rubbed his knee. ‘It’s just that me legs have been playing up a bit this morning, particularly the right one …’

  ‘Oh, Dad, you should have said!’ It was just like him to suffer in silence. ‘Would you like me to make a hot water bottle to put on them?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, luv,’ he said stoutly. ‘It’ll pass eventually, it usually does.’

  ‘Are you sure now?’ Kitty began to fuss around, taking the cushion from behind his head and plumping it up before putting it back carefully.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I got you ten Woodies.’ She fished in her handbag for the cigarettes.

  ‘What would I do without you, kiddo! Where’s the matches? I’m dying for a smoke.’

  Kitty brought a box of Swan Vestas and sat watching him indulgently while he lit a ciggie, took a deep breath and blew the smoke out with a long contented sigh. Their eyes met and they grinned at each other. All her previous resentment was forgotten. She knew that after he’d finished the Daily Herald they would have their dinner, bacon and beans, and he would suggest they play draughts or cards before he took his afternoon nap in the chair. Then they would listen to the six o’clock news on the wireless while they ate their tea. It being Thursday, ITMA with the Liverpool comedian, Tommy Handley, was on at half past eight, his favourite programme. Often Paddy O’Hara, his best mate, would come in and listen with them. Afterwards, they would go to the King’s Arms, Dad somewhat painfully on his sticks, and she would tidy up, fetch in the coke and kindling ready for morning, set the table for their breakfast, put the washing in to soak. Finally, she would make a butty for his supper and start preparing the cocoa.

  She told herself she was very lucky. All over the country, people had lost their homes or, even worse, their families. Kitty Quigley had a warm house to live in and a dad who loved her, and although there were more exciting ways of spending her days, she was better off than many young women of her age.

  Even when Dad produced a piece of paper on which he’d written down what to say when she went to the Labour Exchange on Monday, urging her to learn it off by heart so it would sound natural, Kitty merely nodded her head obediently and didn’t say a word.

  Chapter 2

  The Labour Exchange in Breeze Hill was busy and an air of mild chaos reigned. The original office in Oriel Road had been bombed in May, and it appeared as if the staff had not yet settled properly into their new home. Although Kitty arrived early for her appointment, feeling somewhat nervous, it was almost half past eleven by the time she was told to go to the counter where an official, a beautifully made-up girl much younger than herself, was waiting impatiently as if Kitty were late. There was a little cardboard sign in front of her which told the world she was called Miss G. Ellis.

  ‘Where’s your form?’ she asked crisply.

  ‘I haven’t got a form.’

  ‘You’re supposed to have filled in a form while you were waiting.’

  ‘No-one asked me to,’ Kitty said humbly, feeling it was entirely her own fault she hadn’t filled in a form. She found Miss Ellis, in her navy-blue tailored suit with a crisp white blouse underneath, and with perfectly waved hair, rather intimidating, despite her tender years. She spoke dead posh in a forceful, staccato way, as if she was in a hurry to get the proceedings over with as quickly as possible.


  She tut-tutted and produced a form from behind the counter, snapping, ‘In that case, I’ll fill it in for you to save time. Name?’

  ‘Kathleen Patricia Quigley, but everyone calls me Kitty.’

  ‘Is that Miss or Mrs?’

  ‘Miss,’ Kitty said meekly.

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Twenty Pearl Street, Bootle.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘And what sort of work are you experienced to do?’

  Kitty cleared her throat. ‘Well, I worked in Williams Toffee Factory when I first left school. When I was sixteen, I started training to be a florist. But the thing is …’

  ‘A florist!’ Miss Ellis wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s not much call for florists in wartime.’

  Kitty ignored the interruption and pressed on, ‘… the thing is, there’s something I want to explain first.’

  The girl looked irritated. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I know I’m single and I don’t appear to have any dependants, but the fact is, I do. Me dad’s an invalid and he needs me to look after him.’

  ‘It’s amazing how many women turn out to have invalid fathers, invalid mothers and even invalid cousins and grandparents, when they’re called up for war work,’ Miss Ellis said sarcastically.

  ‘But it’s true,’ Kitty protested, hurt. ‘He had this terrible accident on the docks and he’s never recovered. He needs his sticks to go everywhere. I have to get him up of a morning and put him to bed at night.’

  ‘Can he make his own meals?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wash himself?’

  ‘Yes.’ He’d never wanted her to do intimate things, like wash him. When he took his weekly bath in front of the fire, he would only allow her to fill, then empty the tin tub. Whilst he bathed, she had to go upstairs or shut herself in the back kitchen till he finished.

  ‘Is he under a doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  Miss Ellis paused and looked at Kitty, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised enquiringly. ‘No? How can he be an invalid, yet not be under a doctor?’

  ‘We can’t afford it, can we? Anyroad, he doesn’t need a doctor. He’s not ill, he just can’t get around as well as he should. If his legs ache, he takes a couple of aspirin for the pain.’

  ‘Is he incontinent?’

  Kitty looked at her blankly. ‘What?’

  The girl said impatiently, ‘Does he wet the bed?’

  ‘Good gracious me, no! He goes to the lavatory at the bottom of the yard like everybody else.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Of course.’ Kitty tried vainly to remember the things Dad had written down which she’d learnt by heart. Something about him needing twenty-four-hour care and it being dangerous for him to be left alone in case he fell during one of his dizzy spells, though she couldn’t recall him having had a dizzy spell in years. She racked her brains, but nothing else would come.

  ‘He has dizzy spells,’ she said desperately.

  ‘So do I,’ Miss Ellis said bluntly. ‘I’m epileptic. No-one would employ me before the war. It’s wonderful feeling useful for the first time in my life. I can’t understand women,’ she went on coldly, ‘who perform contortions in order to avoid doing their bit.’

  Epileptic! Kitty stared at the girl, who stared back in a slightly aggressive way as if she expected the remark she looked quite normal, which she did.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ Kitty stammered.

  ‘There’s no reason for you to be sorry, and even less reason why you should have known. I don’t usually tell anyone, it’s just that people like you give me a pain. Working for one’s country during a war is a privilege, not a chore. I’d far sooner be in a factory, but office work is all they’d let me do.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kitty said again, feeling as if she would like the floor to open up and swallow her. She hated being regarded as a shirker when she’d been dying to work for years. The women on either side of her seemed to be having quite animated and friendly conversations with their interviewers, which only made her feel worse.

  Miss Ellis shrugged. ‘As to your father, it appears he can do everything for himself except cook, but if he can get as far as the lavatory in the yard, he must pass through the kitchen where you keep the food. Surely he could prepare a small meal for himself, even if he does it sitting down?’

  ‘I suppose he could,’ Kitty sighed. If she left everything ready, put it in the oven if necessary, and did the washing, the shopping and most of the housework at the weekend, Dad should be able to manage on his own, though she wished she didn’t feel quite so glad she hadn’t managed to convince Miss Ellis of the need to stay at home. ‘It’s me company he’ll miss more than anything else,’ she muttered half to herself.

  ‘If he complains,’ Miss Ellis said unsympathetically, ‘tell him you could be sent anywhere in the country. He’d miss your company even more if he didn’t see you at all.’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t do that, surely?’ cried Kitty, alarmed.

  ‘I could, but I won’t. There’s enough vacancies in Liverpool to avoid such extreme measures.’ She pulled open the drawer of a little wooden box which appeared to be full of white cards and began to leaf through them. For the very first time, she smiled and said sweetly, ‘Now, let’s see what those vacancies are.’

  Half an hour later, Kitty emerged from the Labour Exchange, dazed.

  ‘I’ve got a job!’

  She said the words aloud in order to convince herself, then repeated them, because even she found it hard to believe the words were true.

  ‘I’ve got a job!’

  Next Monday morning at six o’clock sharp, she was to report to Staff Nurse Bellamy at Seafield House in Seaforth which was now a Royal Naval Hospital, where she would be employed as an auxiliary nurse, working morning or afternoon shifts for alternate months. She could have started before, tomorrow if she’d wanted, but thought it wise to leave it till Monday so Dad would have time to get used to the idea of being left by himself.

  A nurse! She visualised herself in a white uniform tending to sick and injured sailors. She really would be doing her bit towards the war effort from now on.

  ‘Apparently, you can catch a bus to the hospital from the tram terminal in Rimrose Road,’ Miss Ellis said when she came off the telephone after fixing everything up. ‘It leaves at twenty to six. A uniform is supplied, but don’t forget to wear a pair of flat shoes.’ There was no need for an interview, the hospital was desperate, though she’d described Kitty in quite glowing terms over the phone.

  ‘Oh, she looks terribly capable to me – and she’s cared for her invalid father for many years,’ Kitty heard her say.

  Miss Ellis had turned out to be reasonably pleasant in the end, and shook Kitty’s hand when she left. ‘Good luck with the job, Kitty,’ she said a touch patronisingly.

  ‘Good luck to you,’ said Kitty.

  She didn’t go straight home, but wandered around the shops in Stanley Road, partly to put off telling her dad he was about to be abandoned, partly because she would soon be earning two pounds seventeen and sixpence a week, which meant she’d have money to spend on herself for the first time since she left Garlands.

  According to Miss Ellis, it was rather more than an auxiliary nurse would normally expect to receive; the rate was higher because Kitty was being employed by the Admiralty. ‘You’ll be the equivalent of what they call a Sick Bay Attendant in the Navy, though you won’t have quite so much responsibility.’ On the other hand, the hours were horrendous. Qualified nurses were in short supply and three shifts had been merged into two; six till four on mornings, two till ten on afternoons, six days a week. ‘That two hours’ overlap is the only time the hospital has its full quota of staff,’ Miss Ellis said.

  There seemed to be plenty of clothes available in the shops. By the time she’d seen a coat she’d like to buy, two frocks, a nice blue cable-knit jumper, a pair of shoes and a broderie angla
ise petticoat and knicker set, Kitty had spent an imaginary six months’ wages, though she’d ask Brenda Mahon to run up a few things for her. Brenda was a dressmaker and only charged her friends a pittance for making clothes.

  She went into the Co-op to look at their material, and an entire year’s pay had gone by the time she came out again.

  Kitty wasn’t sure what reaction to expect when she told her father the news; anger, perhaps, dismay, indignation? She was confounded when, after a short interrogation, he appeared stoically resigned to the fact he was about to be left to his own devices as from Monday.

  ‘Did you tell them about me dizzy spells?’ he asked querulously.

  ‘Of course I did, Dad,’ Kitty assured him, ‘but the woman didn’t seem much interested.’ She decided to put the entire blame on the shoulders of Miss Ellis.

  ‘And me palpitations?’

  ‘Yes,’ lied Kitty. She’d forgotten all about his palpitations. ‘She wasn’t interested in them, either.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s something wrong with me heart, the way it beats all crooked like. I was thinking of calling in the doctor one of these days.’

  ‘Would you like me to fetch him in while I’m still home, like?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, luv, it doesn’t matter. It’s just something I’ll have to put up with. You don’t have to worry about me,’ he said bravely. ‘I’ll manage on me own. I’ll have to, won’t I?’

  ‘The neighbours’ll come in and see to you,’ Kitty promised. ‘I’ll have a word with Aggie Donovan, she’s always keen to lend a hand. And Sheila Reilly’ll pop in from time to time and make you a cup of tea. You won’t be on your own, Dad, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’d sooner you didn’t have a word with anyone, luv. I don’t want people poking around, least of all that Aggie woman. It’s not good for a man’s dignity, having folks see him, particularly women, when his body’s all broke up, like.’ His mouth pursed in pain and he rubbed his knee.