Christmas on the Mersey

by Annie Groves

  ‘That’s good of you, Mrs Kennedy.’ Fancy walking all that way, Sarah thought. It must be all of five yards from here to our front door.

  ‘Don’t give it another thought. It’s my pleasure for a local hero.’

  You don’t say. The words floated through Sarah’s head but the lack of expression on her face did not give her thoughts away. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  With that, she left the two women to their jangling. No doubt calling poor Danny fit to burn. As she walked out of the shop, the sun in her eyes, she bumped right into him!

  ‘Hello, Sar, where’ve you been then?’ Danny’s cheerful banter gave Sarah a little frisson of delight. She liked him. A lot. He was genuine. No matter what some people said. However, at twenty he was far too worldly wise to look at somebody like her. Danny had no shortage of female appreciation, especially Betty Parker, who was supposed to be Sarah’s best friend and hung around their house every chance she got just so she could look out of their parlour window in case Danny should walk down the street. She was a right one, that Betty. She had no shame.

  ‘I went to see if there were any cigs in the shop for our Frank,’ Sarah said as they headed to the Feenys’ front door, which like most of the others in Empire Street, was usually open until late every night, even though there was a threat of a German invasion. People looked out for each other in this street, and there was always someone sitting on their step, like old Mrs Ashby, who was always ready for a natter, no matter what time of the day. She kept her eye to business, all right, although a proud and discreet woman, which was why Mam liked her and always made her a small pie or some potato cakes. Sarah and Danny waved and Mrs Ashby waved back and gave them a toothless smile.

  ‘When did your Frank get home? I’ll have to come across and see him later.’

  ‘It’s just a flying visit, to show the family his new leg … It’s tin, you know.’ Then, whispered: ‘He’s going back tomorrow night.’

  ‘Has he got no cigs, then?’ Danny asked. ‘The navy are slipping if they’re leaving their men without a smoke.’ Before Sarah could tell him Frank had left his back at base, Danny took a squashed packet of five Woodbines out of his pocket. ‘Here, give him these. They’re a bit crumpled but they’re fine. I can always get more later.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sarah asked, glad their Frank could have a smoke while he was listening to the wireless. The whole family liked to settle down for ITMA and listen to Tommy Handley’s comic capers.

  Then, but only ever after Mam had gone to bed, Pop would twiddle the wireless knob and he and Frank would secretly tune in to Lord Haw-Haw. Mam said it was unpatriotic to listen to the Nazi propaganda, which frequently offered spurious details of raids. Nevertheless, among the ranting, sometimes the only details available from behind enemy lines were the ones given by the traitor, as everything was kept very hush-hush to protect British and Allied sailors. Pop liked to keep his ears open for news of any ships in the hostile North Atlantic where Eddy, serving in the Merchant Navy, was helping to bring much-needed food to England. Frank was interested to know what lies the enemy were spouting this time.

  ‘Between you and me,’ Danny said in a low whisper, looking around to make sure nobody could hear him, ‘a consignment of Craven “A” came in from Canada this afternoon. They’re like gold dust, but the shop will have some in tomorrow.’

  ‘Mrs Snooty said she’ll pass a packet in for our Frank after the shop is shut.’

  ‘Did she now?’ Danny said and, knowing he could trust Sarah to be discreet, he added, ‘They’re not going off the dock until tomorrow morning.’ He knew that if Mrs Kennedy was getting her order tonight she was not going to get them by legal means. He shook his head. The crafty old cow … ‘Looking down her nose at everybody else while she is creaming off the top.’ Well, that was handy to know.

  ‘Are you coming in for a cup of tea?’ Sarah asked. She liked being around Danny. He made her feel … safe.

  ‘I’ll have to get going,’ Danny answered. ‘I’m on the twilight shift on the dock tonight but tell Frank I’ll see him before he goes.’

  He had turned to walk away when Sarah said, ‘Were you going to our house for anything in particu­lar?’ She smiled when Danny smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  ‘I’d forget my head if it wasn’t stuck on,’ he laughed. ‘Our Kitty wanted to know if your mam would look out for Tommy until she gets home from the NAAFI? There’s a dance on and she’s got to work an evening shift.’

  ‘Send him over,’ Sarah said. ‘He can help me sort the bag of woollens I collected this morning with Mam, and I’ve got some pullovers that need unravelling.’

  ‘He’ll love that, I’m sure,’ Danny laughed, ‘but only if it means he can listen to your wireless.’ With that, he turned and crossed back over the cobbled road, wondering if he could get his hands on a wireless set, now they were a bit flush, like. It would be Kitty’s twenty-second birthday in a few weeks; Danny would love to surprise her, and to surprise her with a wireless would be the gear …

  Sarah was a lovely girl. The thought popped into his head without invitation, as it did a lot of late.

  ‘Was there any word from Charlie this morning?’ Rita asked her mother-in-law as she saw her place a small pile of post, retrieved from the doormat, on the counter. Rita had just returned from night duty at the hospital.

  ‘Not this morning,’ Ma Kennedy replied airily. ‘I’m sure he has got more on his mind than writing to us every five minutes. He has got a job and two children to look after, you know.’

  Rita eyed the woman coldly. ‘He should have given us his address by now. He can’t just up and disappear with two kids in tow!’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t just upped and disappeared,’ Mrs Kennedy said. ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.’ Her protestations were determined. ‘He has written already and said that they are all fine. He must have forgotten to put his address on, that’s all. He said that he wants the children to settle in for now and not have any upsetting emotional visits.’ She seemed overly bright to Rita this morning, even a bit giddy. ‘You listen to far too many of those daft dramas on the wireless. Then you get all worked up over nothing.’

  Rita gave her mother-in-law a sideways glance but kept quiet. Ma Kennedy claimed she had given Charlie the only copy of this friend Elsie Lowe’s address that she had, and as she wasn’t in touch regularly she couldn’t remember it at all. Surely if Mrs Kennedy really did not know the address where her son had gone with the children she would move heaven and earth to find out … It had been nearly two weeks and that was all they had heard. Every morning Rita hovered around the door waiting for some news, or hurried home from the hospital after her shift in a state of high anticipation, only to be bitterly disappointed when she got the news from Mrs Kennedy that there was no news today.

  Watching the older woman fiddle with the morning newspapers stacked on the counter, unfolding the top one, smoothing it down and then carefully joining the edges together, Rita knew it was a nervous gesture, a sure sign that Winnie had something to hide.

  What a fool she had been to think Mrs Kennedy, as a mother, would sympathise with her plight. However, looking at her now, and reading the tell-tail signs that the Kennedys unconsciously displayed when they were trying to hide something, Rita suspected the crafty old woman did know something; Charlie would not go one day without talking to his mother, let alone two weeks. They were in cahoots, obviously.

  Rita was trying not to panic. Charlie had been in touch at least and there was no reason to think that the children were in any danger.

  ‘Put those out for the paper man, would you?’ Ma Kennedy pointed at the pile of newsprint and then headed for the back room and her usual spot by the window.

  ‘What did your last slave die of?’ Rita muttered, but she was tired and in no mood for an argument this morning. She went to pick up the bundle of papers and before she did so, she idly looked at the pile of letters that the postman
had brought. There were the usual bills and these days there was often some official pronouncement about saving water or paper, or important information about more essentials that were being rationed. Today there was also something different. It was an official-looking letter addressed to Charlie. Rita turned the brown paper envelope over to see if she could see where it had come from and gasped when she saw the name of the sender was the War Office.

  So, she thought, Charlie’s papers had finally come. There could be no escape for him now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Rita! Cooee!’

  Rita, deep in thought as she entered Empire Street, turned to see Kitty Callaghan beckoning her across the road. Rita smiled; she had not spoken to Kitty for ages as their shifts were often at different times, and even though they lived almost opposite each other they never seemed to have time for a catch-up these days.

  Kitty looked a little perturbed. ‘There’s something I’ve got to show you. Have you got a minute?’ She led Rita up the narrow passageway to her kitchen.

  It all seemed very cloak-and-dagger, Rita thought, intrigued. Entering the warm, cosy kitchen where the clean smell of Mansion polish mixed with the delicious aroma of a stew bubbling away on the stove, Rita felt suddenly hungry.

  ‘Stay and have a bite to eat,’ Kitty said, and she invited Rita to sit at the table before opening the sideboard drawer and taking out an air-mail envelope.

  ‘This came for you yesterday.’ Kitty’s face was suddenly infused with a pink blush. ‘I didn’t want to take it over the road in case Ma Long-nose saw it and started asking awkward questions. You can do without that kind of thing when you’re busy.’

  ‘A letter? For me?’ Rita asked, then recognised the careful, copperplate handwriting on the envelope. Jack had sent it. He had sent a few letters to the hospital and she had answered them. They were just friendly and informative, but reading between the lines Rita could tell that Jack still thought a lot of her and she also thought much of him.

  A thrill ran right through her. She always looked forward to hearing from Jack. He told her of the long periods of boredom punctuated with bursts of frightening activity. To curb the tedium, he read. Rita knew now that Jack had learned to read and write only while serving his apprenticeship in Belfast. He had told her that he could never have read the letter that she sent to him. The one asking him to come home … the one before she made a decision that would break both of their hearts.

  He was now an avid reader and he devoured books of every kind. The last he had read was an Agatha Christie murder mystery, and Rita had hurried to Bootle library to get herself a copy so they could discuss it the next time they saw each other. Rita crushed down the unspoken fear that they all had. The fear about the men they cared for and the danger that they faced in this blasted war. If anything should happen to Jack … He also told her what films he had managed to see when he was not on duty and when Rita saw the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup she knew she was laughing at the same things Jack had laughed along with. She tried to push away the thought that all of this was a fantasy; that the closeness she was trying to create was one that could never happen between them in real life – all it could ever be was a dream …

  Kitty hoped her expression gave nothing away, unaware that the way she was twisting the dishcloth in her hands showed her concern.

  ‘It’s not what it seems,’ Rita spluttered, putting her hand on Kitty’s arm.

  ‘I don’t think anything, Rita. We’ve know each other for ever,’ Kitty said quietly. ‘We’ve been friends since we were kids. You’re the closest person I’ve had to a sister, my best friend; I could tell you anything and you’d keep it secret until your dying day.’

  Kitty was quiet for a moment; Rita didn’t need to question her loyalty. Rita would take it for granted the letter would remain a secret.

  She knew their Jack had eyes for no woman but Rita. He never had. She hoped he would meet a nice girl and settle down but he never had done. Kitty hoped they knew what they were doing. People around these parts could be brutal when it suited them, even though she knew that Jack and Rita were both the souls of propriety.

  ‘They are just letters, Kitty,’ Rita said, wanting to reassure her friend, though Jack’s being far away and in danger was tearing her apart. He could be killed at any time and she had never even told him how she felt. Not since they were young. Now she knew she loved him with every beat of her heart and she always would. ‘We keep each other’s spirits up. I know that you worry for us, but we’re just being good friends to each other.’

  ‘He’s never got over you,’ Kitty said, ‘and it took a long time for him to stop talking about you. Little things like, “Rita likes those” or “Rita used to say that too” told me that he still thought about you every day.’

  ‘Did he?’ Rita had tears in her eyes now. Cruel fate had conspired to keep her and Jack apart. When he went to Belfast and she thought he wasn’t coming back, she was scared and confused. She had made a rash decision and a life with Charlie Kennedy was the price she must pay. How could she have been so immature, so stupid to think she could make a life with someone she didn’t really love, and who had never, ever loved her?

  ‘It’s none of my business, Reet, but … I know that you and Jack will always do what is right.’ Kitty used the name that only Jack ever called her by and Rita’s relief washed over her when she realised Kitty was saying this with the best of intentions. This conversation must be embarrassing Kitty. She had never stepped out of line in her life. Her social standing was impeccable. To agree to say nothing about the letter was tantamount to agreeing with what they were doing. After all, Jack was a single man.

  ‘I’m a married woman with two children,’ Rita whispered. ‘Nothing can come of a relationship like ours – except heartache, is that what you’re thinking, Kit?’

  ‘No, I’m not thinking anything of the sort,’ Kitty answered, pulling tiny pieces of dry bread from the piece she had sliced earlier and dropping it into her stew while Rita’s remained untouched. ‘I’m glad you and Jack write to each other, there’s no law against it …’

  ‘Say what you need to say, Kitty. I’m a grown up.’

  ‘I just don’t want you or Jack to be hurt any more. Especially Jack, Rita. He needs to make a life for himself. He’s already made so many sacrifices for me and Danny and Tommy.’ Kitty shook her head. ‘But, I won’t say a word to anybody, you know that.’

  Rita nodded. Kitty was right. Jack deserved to find someone and have a wife and family of his own. She was selfish to harbour any feelings for him. Rita vowed then that she would write to Jack once more, but this time she’d tell him they must stop. It wouldn’t be right to continue. While she was Charlie’s wife, she must be above criticism. For the sake of the family and for her children.

  Kitty gave Rita a gentle smile and then nodded to Rita’s bowl. ‘It’s getting cold …’

  Rita had a job to stop tears welling up as she rose from the table and hugged her friend as she would hug her own sisters. Kitty was such a good and loyal friend.

  Kitty saw the emotion in her friend’s face. ‘You soppy ha’p’orth,’ she smiled as tears formed in her own eyes. Life was so rotten now that it could not be wrong to find consolation anywhere you could get it.

  ‘Why don’t you stay and put your feet up for a cuppa before you go back? I’ll put the kettle on and you can share Jack’s news,’ Kitty said, lifting the teapot and making her way out of the kitchen. Rita turned the regulation envelope over in her hands, her fingers itching to tear it open. Yet the bittersweet anticipation stilled her hands.

  She was too overwhelmed to reply.

  She skimmed the letter quickly, absorbing it only lightly, then went back to the beginning and started again, to savour his words. She imagined his voice in her head as she read. The words were pure Jack: funny, insubordinate when he talked about his super­iors, jokey when talking of the mess pranks. They sounded more like naughty twelve-year-olds than Britain’s proud fi
ghting men. However, his true nature came to the fore when he told her that while on shore leave, he and his ‘oppo’ (his opposite num­­ber) had found a kitten nestling next to its dead mother:

  He is as black as the hobs of hell, Reet, I couldn’t just leave him there, and the poor thing would have died before the night was out. So I gently picked him up and snook him into my duffel coat and took him on board the ship. I put him in a cardboard box under my bunk – he was comfy as anything, but the lads said he cried so much when I was out with the squad that I had to take him up with me inside my flying jacket – he loved it – so I’ve called him Winco – he’s my good luck cat.

  Rita smiled as she read the letter; trust Jack to be so sensitive and so thoughtful. The war had not changed him – thank goodness.

  ‘Do you want me to mind the letter for you?’ Kitty asked.

  Rita knew that when Kitty said ‘mind’ the letter she meant ‘hide’.

  ‘No, thanks, Kit; I don’t want you to get into bother for me. But thank you for being so understanding.’

  ‘If there are any more I’ll keep them here for you and I’ll let you know as soon as they arrive.’

  ‘You’re a pal, Kit.’

  Rita hugged her friend again and her throat tightened when Kitty said, ‘I wish our Jack had seen sense all those years ago and married you instead of going to Belfast.’

  So do I, Kit, thought Rita, so do I.

  Petty Officer Jack Callaghan took Rita’s letter out of the envelope and carefully unfolded it against the stiff breeze blowing onto the flight deck of HMS Distinguished.

  An aviator in the Fleet Air Arm, after intensive shore-based training and successfully qualifying, he piloted a Swordfish biplane.

  The aircraft carrier had been reprieved from the ships’ graveyard at the eleventh hour, and was now heading for home from European waters to replenish essentials.

  Jack adored his job and loved nothing better than flying his steadfast, if somewhat uncomfortable aircraft, commonly known as the ‘string bag’ by the flight crew, to carry out night attacks. The excitement of the chase whilst serving in almost every theatre of war gave Jack little time to worry about what was going on at home, although word was coming through that Merseyside was taking a right hammering.