Through The Storm

by Maureen Lee

  ‘You look perfectly fine, Dad.’ If the truth be known, he looked the picture of health. ‘You just have trouble getting round, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all!’ He regarded her with moist eyes. ‘Your mam, God rest her soul, wouldn’t think “that’s all” if she could see me. It’d break her heart if she knew the way I was.’

  Kitty’s mam had died when she was four. She had only vague memories of a quiet, brown-haired woman who smiled a lot and smelt of lavender when they went to church.

  ‘That’s why I didn’t put you in an orphanage when your mam passed away, like a lot of folk suggested,’ Dad said, his voice quivering with emotion. ‘’Cos I knew it’d break her heart.’

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ Kitty felt so full of guilt, she could easily have burst into tears. Perhaps she should go back to the Labour Exchange and tell them there was no way she could go to work. She would ask to see a different official, someone who might be a bit more sympathetic than Miss Ellis. It was her dad who, perhaps unintentionally, made her see that this wasn’t the right thing to do.

  ‘Still,’ he said, ‘all those injured sailors need you more than your ould dad does, eh, kiddo?’

  ‘I suppose they do,’ she agreed.

  ‘Just leave a butty and a glass of water on the table before you go to work, and that’ll see me through the day till you come home and make something proper to eat.’

  Kitty remembered what Miss Ellis had said; that if he could get as far as the lavatory, it meant he passed through the kitchen and could make a meal for himself, but felt it wasn’t quite the right time to point this out.

  That night, he didn’t feel well enough for the King’s Arms and decided to go to bed early. He groaned, clearly in terrible agony, as she helped him upstairs. After he’d changed into his pyjamas and she went to tuck him in, he panted, ‘Don’t know what I’m going to do about getting downstairs next week, luv. I’m not keen on getting up at half past five. Perhaps it might be best if I stayed in bed till you came home.’

  ‘But, Dad,’ she cried. ‘You’d be bored silly stuck in bed all day.’

  ‘Not if you brought the wireless up. You might even find time to buy the paper before you went to work.’

  ‘I’ll do me best,’ vowed Kitty, though she was already worried she wouldn’t be out in time to catch the bus. ‘Goodnight, Dad.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.’

  ‘Of course it is, luv. After all, there’s a war on. Everyone’s got to make sacrifices, haven’t they?’

  Jessica Fleming stood in the window staring out at the undulating Westmorland countryside, her baby daughter in her arms. From here, on the second floor, you could see for miles and miles. There was not a building in sight, just smooth green hills dotted here and there with smudges of purple heather and vivid yellow gorse. Hedges of a darker green ran haphazardly across the flat ground where the grass was longer and wilder. Some of the trees had already turned gold and were surrounded by a scattering of fallen leaves. The trunks of a row of silver birches glinted as brightly as if they had been painted.

  Directly below the window, in their private garden, the lawn was strewn with conkers and cones. The cones were supposed to indicate the weather; closed it would rain, and the sun would shine if they were open, though Jessica had never found them very accurate.

  She jumped as two grey squirrels suddenly appeared only yards from where she stood, chasing each other in and out the branches of a massive oak tree. The baby chuckled and reached for the squirrels, slightly surprised when her chubby hands came up against the glass. The animals disappeared. A few seconds later, they were scampering across the conkers and cones on the lawn.

  It was a magnificent view, spectacular. This was England as it had been a thousand years ago, unspoilt and natural.

  But Jessica hated it. She appreciated the beauty, yet it made her feel exposed, unsafe, unshielded. She wasn’t quite sure how to describe what she felt when she looked out of the window – and it was impossible not to look out a hundred times a day, for it stretched the entire wall – and saw such a vast expanse of the earth, yet never another human being in sight. She preferred the winter, when she would draw the curtains and turn on the lamps far sooner than was necessary. It was only then she felt safe.

  The little girl began to struggle, and Jessica shifted her weight onto her other arm. ‘It won’t be long, Penny love, then we’ll go,’ she whispered.

  Had anyone been outside the window looking in, they would have considered Jessica Fleming herself to be as spectacular as the view, with milk-white skin and a gleaming cascade of russet hair which she secretly hennaed nowadays to keep the grey streaks at bay. As if her glorious head of hair wasn’t enough to attract attention, her eyes were an unusual sea-green. Tall, and perhaps slightly overweight, her figure had a Rubensesque voluptuousness accentuated by her clinging blue jersey dress. Penny was equally outstanding, even though she was only twelve months old; a Christmas card baby, with plump rosy cheeks, firm rounded limbs and hair not quite so thick and red as her mother’s, more a tawny gold. Penny’s eyes were a bright clear blue.

  Outside, the sun began to slip behind a cloud, and a shadow crept swiftly across the hills and fields as if someone was laying a dark blanket over it all. Jessica shuddered and turned away. She sat Penny on the floor, where she immediately got to her feet and began to lurch unsteadily from the chair to the sideboard to the sofa, until she fell full length on the rug in front of the fire. She didn’t cry, but a look of gritty determination came over her little face and she crawled as far as a chair, pulled herself to her feet and began another precarious journey around the room. Penny had only started walking two weeks ago.

  Her mother laughed and cooed. ‘What a clever girl you are!’ She sat on the velvet sofa, her back to the window, and said aloud, ‘I wish Arthur would hurry up.’ He’d promised faithfully to see her off by half past twelve. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was quarter to one.

  A few seconds later, there were footsteps on the stairs, slow and rather weary, as if the person coming was either very old or didn’t relish whatever was waiting for him in the room upstairs. A man entered, handsome in a gentle, subdued way. He muttered, ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but we had a visitor.’ He regarded the woman wretchedly. ‘Are you sure about this, Jess?’

  ‘I’m positive, Arthur. I want to go home.’

  ‘But …’

  The woman raised a white hand on which the nails had been painted a delicate pink. ‘Please don’t start again, dear. We’ve gone over this a hundred times over the last few days. I want to be in Pearl Street, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘But you hated Pearl Street, Jess,’ he said wildly. ‘You couldn’t stand it when you were forced to go back two years ago.’

  She nodded in agreement. ‘I know. I’m being awkward. I’m not even sure myself why I feel the way I do.’ She’d been born in the street forty-five years ago; Jessie Hennessy, whose dad was a rag-and-bone man, operating from the end house which was now a coalyard. Bert Hennessy, a widower, turned to removing furniture on his cart, eventually bought a lorry and was soon running ten. By the time Jessie was sixteen, they’d moved to a better house in Walton Vale. When she met Arthur, who’d taken a part-time job with the company to help himself through university, the Hennessys were living in a detached mock Tudor residence in Calderstones, the best part of Liverpool.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ moaned Arthur. ‘If we hadn’t gone bankrupt, we’d still be in Calderstones. There’d have been no need to move to Pearl Street. Everything would have been fine.’

  ‘Oh, Arthur! How many times have you said that over the last few days? It wasn’t your fault. You’re an intellectual, not a businessman. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. I should have paid more attention to what was going on.’ She was the one with the head for commerce, but she’d been too busy climbing up the social ladder to take an interest in the business after her father died. It had all bee
n left to Arthur and he couldn’t cope. When the crash came, she’d been taken totally by surprise. They’d returned to Pearl Street, where Bert Hennessy had invested in several properties, to live in one of the houses she owned. The shock to her system had seemed unbearable at the time. She’d never dreamt that nearly a quarter of a century later she’d return to live in the mean little street where she’d grown up. It was almost as great a shock to discover she didn’t want to leave when Arthur got this job, curator of the museum downstairs.

  ‘Anyroad, Arthur,’ she said gently. ‘Everything wasn’t fine, was it? Our marriage wasn’t exactly what you’d call perfect.’

  ‘It wasn’t so bad,’ he said sulkily. Penny was trying to climb up his legs. He reached down, picked her up and pressed his face against her round cheek. Jess could tell he was close to tears. ‘I suppose you’re going back to her father!’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t take that attitude, dear. My going back’s nothing to do with him. He knows nothing about Penny.’

  ‘Not that I blame you,’ he went on, his face still muffled against the little girl’s. ‘He gave you a child, which was something I never managed to do.’

  ‘I told you never to think like that. Penny’s your daughter, every bit as much as she’s mine.’ She felt irritated at having to repeat, virtually word for word, the things she’d already said so many times, but supposed it was only fair to let him have one final try at changing her mind, despite the fact she knew it was useless. She was leaving, no matter what Arthur said.

  ‘That doesn’t stop you taking her away from me.’

  ‘I’m not taking her away, I’m going home.’

  Arthur sighed and carried the little girl over to the window. ‘I can’t understand how you can bring yourself to leave all this.’ He gestured towards the view. ‘It’s glorious.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jess, ‘but I loathe it. It’s dead. I feel as if I’m living in a graveyard, particularly being on top of a museum.’ The Higginbotham Museum of Prehistoric Egyptian and Greek Art, it said on the engraved brass plate outside.

  ‘I should never have brought you here,’ Arthur said miserably. ‘I wasn’t exactly unhappy myself during the time we spent in Bootle.’

  Jess went over and stood beside him. Their shoulders touched. ‘You love it here, Arthur. It’s an archaeologist’s heaven.’ He spent hours downstairs long after the doors closed, poring over the artefacts, studying papers, writing letters to people all over the world who were as infatuated as he was with Greek and Roman remains. It was the first time since leaving university he’d had the opportunity to indulge in the subject which interested him to the point of obsession. Perhaps if they had more time together, she wouldn’t have felt so cut off from life, Jess thought without rancour.

  ‘I don’t think I can go on living if you’re not here.’ He buried his head in Penny’s hair and began to cry.

  ‘Then why don’t you come with me?’ challenged Jess. She loved him, though he was weak and made her feel more like a mother than a wife. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she prayed he would duck the challenge. He did.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d sooner wait and hope you’ll come back.’

  Jess knew that she and Penny wouldn’t be gone for long before he’d be downstairs immersed in his treasures and they’d both be forgotten, at least for a while.

  ‘Would you mind carrying the suitcase out to the van?’

  He nodded numbly and put the little girl in her arms. ‘You’ll write?’

  ‘Of course. We’ll still see each other.’

  They went wordlessly down the two flights of stairs. Penny seemed to have grasped something serious was happening. She stared solemnly at her mother and held grimly to her ear.

  Outside, the picturesque High Street was deserted. It was Wednesday, half day closing, and the only sign of life was a cat washing itself on a windowsill opposite.

  Arthur put the suitcase in the back of the van and Jess tied Penny into the passenger seat with her reins. Her pushchair was already there, along with her white painted cot and mattress and her toys, bundles of bedding and several other household items.

  ‘This is stupid!’ Arthur cried. In a frantic gesture, he put both hands to his forehead. ‘Why are you doing this to me, Jess?’

  Jess kissed his cheek. ‘I’m sorry, dear. It’s just that I was beginning to feel as dead as the scenery. I’m a city person, Arthur, a Liverpudlian through and through. I need bricks and mortar around me, people, shops. I’ve never felt so alive as that year we spent in Bootle.’ She seemed to experience all sorts of emotions she’d never thought existed.

  Arthur glanced at Penny through the van window. ‘I can understand that,’ he said bitterly. It was the other man who’d made her feel alive.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Penny,’ Jess protested, though it was. ‘It was all sorts of things, like the troop concerts I used to give with Jacob Singerman …’

  ‘Jacob Singerman’s dead.’

  ‘I know,’ Jess said sadly. ‘Lots of people are dead, like Eileen Costello’s husband and Tony, her little boy, all gone in the Blitz. That’s something else. It hardly feels as if there’s a war on, living here. Liverpool’s at the very hub, what with the docks being so important.’ One of the first things she’d do when she got back was take Penny for a walk along the Dock Road. ‘I feel as if I’m missing out on all the excitement.’

  ‘Excitement!’ Arthur said derisively. ‘The air raids weren’t exciting.’

  ‘How would we know, Arthur, we weren’t there.’ If it hadn’t been for Penny, she would have left months ago, raids or no raids. She felt the need to be in the thick of things. She opened the door of the van and slid into the driving seat. ‘Goodbye, love.’

  He bent down and kissed her on the lips, his face stricken with grief. ‘Goodbye, my darling Jess.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind my taking the van?’ Jess had plans for the van once she was ensconced in Bootle.

  ‘I’ll get something else.’ He needed transport occasionally to collect items which had been donated to the museum.

  ‘Is there enough petrol?’

  ‘I’ve put in the entire month’s ration. The rest of the coupons are in your handbag.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said briefly, and for the very first time since she’d told him she was leaving three days ago, Arthur felt a surge of resentment. She was selfish, always putting herself first, never him. Nevertheless, he said, ‘I’ll send you a cheque each month.’

  Jess had been about to slam the door, but paused. ‘I told you, Arthur, I don’t expect you to keep us, not under the circumstances.’

  ‘I’ll send a cheque all the same. You can tear it up if you like.’

  ‘As you wish, dear.’ She closed the door, switched the engine on and shoved the gear lever into first. ‘Goodbye,’ she shouted.

  The van was moving when she heard banging on the side. She braked impatiently and Arthur opened the door. ‘Who was it, Jess?’ he said pleadingly. ‘Just tell me his name?’

  But Jess merely shook her head, and once again the van started to move and Arthur was left with no alternative but to release the door. He watched as a white hand reached out and slammed it shut. He still watched until the van reached the end of the High Street, turned the corner, and Jess was gone.

  Miss Helen Brazier was getting married and vacating number 10, one of Jess’s properties, though no-one in Pearl Street knew she was the landlord of a dozen houses in the area. They’d been purchased by Bert Hennessy many years ago as an investment. An agent collected the rent, took his commission and deposited the remainder of the money in her and Arthur’s joint bank account, where it went towards paying off debts that were still outstanding to the bank from when the firm went bankrupt.

  According to the agent, with his approval Miss Brazier had been subletting number 10 ever since she’d joined the ATS fifteen months ago. Now stationed in Suffolk, she was about to wed a sergeant in the Royal Air Force who alread
y owned his own house in Potters Bar – Jess read the letter to the agent, and Helen Brazier had actually underlined ‘owned’ twice. Normally, the tenancy would automatically be transferred to the people subletting, but the Grahams were bad payers, never in when the agent called for the rent, and several weeks in arrears for the umpteenth time. He suggested they be given Notice to Quit.

  Go ahead, Jess wrote back when she received his letter. She couldn’t stand people who didn’t pay their bills. Though it’s not me who should suffer the shortfall in rent, but Miss Brazier. She’s the person ultimately responsible. Jessica had a heart of stone when it came to business matters.

  Helen Brazier saw the justice in this when it was put to her, and offered her furniture to make up the shortfall. It’s good stuff, she wrote. It belonged to my mother. I’m sure it’s worth much more than what is owed. My hubby-to-be already has his own furniture. Anyroad, it would cost the earth to have it sent to Potters Bar.

  The agent asked what he should do? The Grahams have moved out and left the place a proper midden. It needs cleaning and redecorating throughout before it can be re-let, though the wallpaper’s the sort that’ll take a coat of distemper. The furniture’s good quality, like she said. He wanted to know if he should sell it, or let the house furnished. Lots of people lost their stuff in the raids. You could get as much as half a crown a week more by letting it fully furnished. If Jess wanted it sold, he would charge a fee of ten shillings for his trouble.

  All this correspondence had been going on without Arthur’s knowledge. Jess liked to keep her own affairs private, not that he would have been interested if she’d told him – if she’d had an opportunity to tell him, that is, whilst he was so engrossed in bits and pieces several thousand years old.

  It was when she got this last letter that Jess had her great idea. She would live in Helen Brazier’s house. She would move back to Pearl Street with Penny, which was what she’d been yearning to do ever since she’d left for the second time.

  She told the agent to have the house cleaned and decorated; pastel colours; pale pinks, blues, white. She’d recently read in a magazine that pale colours were all the rage in Mayfair. Leave the furniture where it is, she – wrote. I’ve some business to sort out in Liverpool which might take quite a while. I’ll live there myself.