“You were great, sticking up for that new girl at break today,” Joan said later that afternoon as she and Doreen ambled homewards together. She was not proud of the fact that she hadn’t been able to do what Doreen had with such casual confidence. Deep down, Joan was a little afraid of Angela. She knew how capable she was of turning on anyone who protected an obvious loser.
“Oh, that Angela,” Doreen said carelessly. “Classic Nazi bullying tactics. Angela and her lot would have no trouble getting themselves promoted in the Hitler Youth. Actually, I was talking to someone earlier who seemed to know something about Ania. Came here with lots of other refugee kids – on a Kindertransport, I think – just before the war began. She’s been shunted around from one temporary place to another ever since so hasn’t managed to pick up much English. Both her parents are dead and they can’t trace any other family. Now she’s billeted with some old lady − I think her name is Miss Mellor – in Ashchurch Avenue.”
“Don’t envy her. It’s one of those roads near the promenade – so quiet that it’s a big event when a cat walks past. Nothing doing except a lot of curtain-twitching,” Joan said.
“Yeah. Ania muttered something about Miss Mellor being very fussy and ultra houseproud. She likes Ania to be out of the way as much as possible, so she has to walk about on her own after school until it gets dark and then she’s allowed to clock in for supper. After that, it’s sitting with Miss Mellor in the front room, listening to the nine o’clock news on the radio, then lights out and off to bed.”
“Poor her. Anyway, let’s hope Angela will stay away from her now or she might wish she was back where she came from!”
CHAPTER 4
It was Saturday morning, and Joan was helping Audrey to paint her legs with gravy browning. This was a tricky, exacting business, demanding time and concentration. But as nylons and proper leg make-up were now almost unobtainable, gravy browning was the only solution. The problem with it was that it tended to run and turn streaky in wet weather. It had to be applied very evenly. Then, to achieve a perfect effect, a line was drawn at the back of each leg with an eyebrow pencil to imitate a stocking seam. This was Joan’s job, although she wasn’t very good at it. It was part of the elaborate preparation that Audrey was making for meeting Dai Davies that evening.
Dai was a Welsh boy who had grown up locally and was now serving as a wireless operator in the Merchant Navy, as their dad had done. His ship was part of the Atlantic convoys that made the dangerous crossings to America and Russia, bringing back vital supplies of food and armaments to Britain. Now his ship had docked at Liverpool and he was home on leave.
All the family liked Dai, and they knew that he was very special to Audrey. Plenty of other boys wanted to go out with her, but Dai was the one she liked best; the one she wrote letters to when he was at sea, even if it was by no means certain that he would get them. This leave was something Audrey had looked forward to a lot. But Joan knew that Mum was worried about her getting into a steady relationship with Dai while she was still so young. Joan had heard Mum talking about how dangerous his life at sea was. As if we needed to be reminded of that, Joan thought.
At last, Joan sat back on her heels and surveyed her handiwork. Privately, although she did not dare say so, she thought that Audrey’s legs might look better if they were left bare, despite the risk of goosebumps.
“Do you think this colour’s gone too orange?” Audrey asked anxiously, craning over backwards to examine herself critically in the mirror.
“Well, perhaps a bit. But it’ll be dark, anyway, won’t it?”
“Not indoors! We’re going to a dance at the church hall.” Audrey’s dress – navy blue with polka dots and a white bow at the neck – was already ironed and back on its hanger. A bit summery for the time of year, but this dress was by far the most becoming she owned, especially when worn with her white slingback, wedge heels.
It was some days after the incident of the mysterious man in the back garden and as he had not made any kind of reappearance, the family had all begun to forget about him. They had other things to worry about. Their house was in a so-called “safe” area, removed from what was supposed to be immediate danger, but they could see the flares and searchlights raking the night sky and hear the terrifying explosions as the Luftwaffe’s main target – the Liverpool docks – was relentlessly bombed.
Joan’s family didn’t go into the public air-raid shelter unless things got really bad. Nobody wanted to sit in a dark, cold, smelly place for hours at night, huddled in blankets and waiting for the all clear. Mum had put a mattress and some cushions into the big cupboard under the stairs, which was supposed to be the safest place if the house got a direct hit, but Joan preferred to risk it in the comfort of her own bed.
The local cinemas stayed open in spite of the Blitz, and there were still dances at the youth club and in church halls. The dance Audrey was going to tonight with Dai would have a live band − local boys playing piano, saxophone, clarinet and drums − and a glittering ball made of tiny mirrors that revolved overhead when the lights were low, reflecting myriad kaleidoscopic colours onto the dancers. This was a special event.
Joan had been to one or two young teenage hops down at the youth club, persuaded by her friend Doreen, but she hadn’t enjoyed them much. With Audrey and Dai, it was different − they were really keen on each other. The youth-club dances were pretty boring. Joan hated having to stand about waiting for a boy to come over and ask her to dance. Often he wasn’t even someone she especially liked. It wasn’t much fun being sweatily squeezed up against Ross Jenks or Derek Williams as they wheeled you around the room, treading on your feet. Brian’s appearances at these events were mysterious. He sometimes arrived late in the evening with a couple of school friends and stood in the doorway, looking sternly detached, but Joan had never yet seen him take to the dance floor.
Joan much preferred an outing to the pictures with Doreen, if Mum would let her go. They went to the early five-thirty show so as to be back at home before the air-raid warning went off.
American movies offered a glimpse of heaven compared with the chilly reality of the blackout and endless queues for the meagre family meat ration, or the mere possibility of a cake or a packet of biscuits.
The cinema was a magical place in which glamorous characters, played by stars such as Myrna Loy, Clark Gable or Katharine Hepburn, sat about in luxury penthouse apartments sipping cocktails as a waiter wheeled in a trolley laden with delicious food. A wonderful world in which the famous Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney sang and danced in an enviable whirl of bobby socks, high-school proms and romance. In this Hollywood paradise, girls had rooms of their own with elaborate flounced bedcovers and full-length mirrors, instead of having to share a cramped back bedroom with a maddening six-
year-old.
Joan had noticed in the local paper that a really good Betty Grable film was showing at the Queensway Cinema that evening. She was longing to see it and was determined to get there if she could.
While Audrey was still fussing over her legs, the doorbell rang.
“Ross and Derek are here, Joanie,” Mum called up the stairs. Joan had quite forgotten that it was her day to do youth-service work. She went down reluctantly. The children at Joan’s school usually took it in turns to collect salvage for the war effort – saucepans, newspapers, bits of wood – all of which had to be kept separate. The metal stuff was the most important, or so they had been told. It was going to be melted down to make Spitfires.
“Come on, Joan, we’re running late,” Ross said impatiently. Ross had overdone the Brylcreem on his hair, as usual. It stood up in a high quiff over his forehead.
Derek remained impassive, leaning on the handles of the cart.
“OK, OK, I’m just coming,” said Joan, struggling into her cardigan.
As soon as they got round the nearest corner and were heading for the seafront, Ross and Derek both produced cigarettes and lit up. Derek smoked in a way he hoped made him look
sophisticated, holding it between thumb and second finger and puffing out smoke rings with half-closed eyes.
“We’ve got four left,” he told Joan. “Want one? My dad’s home on leave and we pinched them from his uniform pocket.”
“No, thanks. I don’t like them. Come on. Let’s start with the posh houses down near the Royal Hotel.”
The boys agreed that this was a good idea and the three set off, pushing the handcart at a brisk pace. Soon they had collected quite a haul, including half an old bicycle, a sack full of tin cans and many bundles of newspapers. One lady gave them a whole set of saucepans.
Feeling pleased with themselves, they trundled on down to the promenade. Here, a row of shelters with peaked roofs offered a view of the muddy Dee Estuary and an offshore island with its wireless mast and coastguard’s house. Beyond it, across the incoming tide, lay the misty coast of North Wales. The front-facing seats of the shelters caught the full impact of a sharp sea breeze. The back ones, separated by a cracked, salt-caked glass window, were marginally less draughty. Joan knew that, in the evenings, the shelters offered some of the few available refuges for young servicemen, stationed locally and far from home, and their girlfriends. Now, though, they were deserted.
“Gee, I’m hungry,” said Ross, slumping down on a seat and splaying out his long, spindly legs. “Do you remember when you could buy buns at that cafe by the outdoor swimming baths? And there was a Wall’s ice-cream man with a tricycle on the prom?”
“‘Stop me and buy one,’” said Derek dreamily, quoting from the ad on the ice-cream cart with a far-off look in his eye. “The snow-fruits were tuppence. They dripped down your arm. I can hardly remember what they tasted like now.”
“Perhaps they’ll give us a sandwich at the hotel, if we call there next,” said Joan. “My mum helps there now and again and I know Basia and Gosia, two Polish ladies who work in the kitchen. Mum teaches them English sometimes.”
The Royal Hotel loomed up over the boating lake like a many-chimneyed Gothic palace in a fairy tale. The great glass sun lounge was sealed off, leaving a riot of potted palms and tangled greenery rotting inside. All the other windows were criss-crossed with sticky tape to stop them from shattering inwards if there was a bomb blast.
The place no longer functioned as a hotel – no leisured guests or golf enthusiasts reclined on deckchairs on the terrace. The attic floors were completely closed up and the lower rooms had been commandeered to accommodate evacuee children from the danger areas in and around Liverpool.
Teams of hard-working volunteers from the Women’s Voluntary Services now ran the place, aided by a motley collection of kitchen workers. As Joan and the boys approached the hotel, they could see a few ladies attempting to organize a ball game with the younger children on what used to be the hotel lawn, but it was rapidly descending into chaos.
Joan, Ross and Derek parked their laden handcart by the kitchen entrance. A row of older children, ranged along the doorstep like seagulls beadily eyeing a potential snack, regarded them with some hostility.
“You can’t come in here,” one girl said. “It’s not dinnertime yet. We’ve got to stay out until the gong goes.”
“We’re collecting salvage,” Joan told them.
“Aw, gerra way. There’s no salvage here!”
Ross and Derek, who seemed to be rapidly losing interest in this whole salvage project, leaned wearily against the wall and stared into space.
“Are Basia and Gosia here?” Joan asked.
“Them two foreign women? Nah. They didn’t show up today. Probably scared. I wouldn’t hang around this place too often if I was you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s bloody haunted! Didn’t you know? There’s a ghost that walks in the attics at night − in the bit that’s sealed off. We’re sleeping in the rooms underneath and we hear it sometimes, creeping around. Boards squeaking, footsteps and that.”
Ross and Derek had not moved, but Joan knew they had begun to listen intently.
“There can’t be a ghost up there,” she said. “It must be a person.” And she stopped short, realizing as she said it that this seemed even scarier.
“Can’t be!” said the girl firmly. “They’d be found out. They’d need food and stuff. Ghosts don’t need food. Anyway, nobody could get up there. It’s a ghost, all right. It’s dead scary. Especially at night with the blackout and all.”
Later, as they pushed the handcart round to the WVS salvage collection centre, Ross and Derek were unusually quiet.
“She’s talking rubbish, that kid,” said Ross at last. “Those Liverpool kids’ll believe anything.” But he did not sound completely convinced.
CHAPTER 5
It was past noon by the time they had delivered the salvage to the WVS collection centre and returned the handcart, and they were aching with hunger. Ross and Derek, who seemed to have nothing better to do, mooched wearily along with Joan in the direction of her house. On the way, they ran into Doreen, looking lovely as usual: pink-faced, blonde hair blowing in the wind. The boys perked up considerably when they saw her, but she ignored them.
“Mummy says I can go to the pictures with you tonight if we catch the early show,” she told Joan. “Can you call for me at my house at about five and we’ll walk down to the Queensway together?”
“Great! They’re showing Down Argentine Way with Betty Grable. It’s got that new singer in it – what’s her name? Carmen Miranda – the one who wears the tutti-frutti hat!”
To show she knew who Joan meant, Doreen performed a few expert samba steps on the pavement. Even in flat lace-ups and ankle socks, her legs looked good. Ross and Derek exchanged glances. All three watched as Doreen tripped off, waving but not looking back. Why do I have an older sister and a best friend with lovely legs? Joan thought to herself.
“Will you be going?” she asked Ross, then wished she hadn’t. She’d remembered too late that Ross’s dad probably couldn’t afford to give him money for the pictures on an army corporal’s pay.
“Nah,” Ross said scornfully. “I’m going to football practice. Can’t stand all that daft dance stuff, anyway. Tutti-frutti rubbish.”
“Me neither,” agreed Derek and he did a terrible imitation of what he thought was Carmen Miranda’s song and dance routine, flapping his hands about above his head.
“We like action pictures. John Wayne, James Cagney and that,” said Ross. After crouching down low, he emptied the chambers of an imaginary pair of pistols into Derek, who staggered about, clutching his stomach before falling flat on the pavement.
Joan was greeted by the welcome smell of dinner cooking as she entered the house. Mum usually managed to stretch the rations to something good on Saturday. They all lived, ate, did homework and listened to the wireless in the back sitting room next to the kitchen, where it was warm. The front room was left cold and unheated, except for special occasions. But, with a sinking heart, Joan heard voices in there. This meant a visitor, and she was pretty sure who it was. She tried to sidle through the hall and get upstairs unnoticed, but her mum heard her and called out, “Is that you, Joanie? Come on in!”
Reluctantly Joan hovered in the doorway, still wearing her coat.
Captain Ronnie Harper Jones was leaning against the mantelpiece, warming his backside by the small fire that Mum must have been reckless enough to light in honour of his visit. She was sitting on the settee, wearing her best ice-blue twinset, with her hair carefully done up in front. On the table was a half-opened parcel full of goodies. Joan immediately spotted a packet of butter and two bags of sugar, as well as what looked like some promising tinned goods. But she wouldn’t let her eyes rest on them.
“Joanie!” cried Captain Harper Jones. “Been out helping the war effort, I hear! Good for you!”
Joan nodded but said nothing. Nobody called her Joanie except her family and sometimes Doreen. She didn’t like someone she hardly knew doing it. Especially this man, with his carefully tended moustache and dapper army offic
er’s uniform, with polished Sam Browne belt, gleaming brass buttons and three pips up on each shoulder.
Some people might find him pretty impressive (including, for some unknown reason, her mum), but in Joan’s opinion, he was on the oily side. Anyway, his eyes were too close together. She wished he hadn’t taken to dropping in so often, especially not at Saturday dinnertime. He was stationed locally with the Army Catering Corps – “the wonderfully whacky world of army supplies”, as he laughingly called it. He was always explaining that he would have preferred to be with a crack commando unit, to see some real action “now the Jerry war was on the doorstep”, but unfortunately he had failed his medical on account of his eyesight.
“Just dropped by to bring in a few extras for you,” he said. “Help to eke out the rations!”
“It’s awfully kind of you,” said Mum. “We can manage, of course, but it’s a bit difficult with all these hungry people around.”
“Glad to help out any time. I’ve just come off parade. That’s why I’m all spruced up in dress uniform. Got to set a good example and all that. I won’t allow any laxity in my unit. I keep them up to scratch in the smartness department. And I see to it that the batman who looks after my uniform does a proper job with the spit and polish.”
“We’ve just been discussing the big charity dinner dance that’s coming up soon in aid of the Red Cross,” said Mum. “Ronnie’s doing all the catering for it.”
“It’s going to be at the golf club,” he explained nonchalantly. “I’m a friend of the chap who chairs the committee. Promises to be a pretty swish affair – Blitz allowing, that is. I’m taking your mother, as a matter of fact, and I was just wondering if you’d like to join us?”
“I’d rather not,” said Joan. “I’m not much good at ballroom dancing.”
“Oh, come on, Joanie. You’d love it,” said Mum.
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