by Annie Groves
A bevy of burly fire-fighters pushed past just as Danny was having to retreat. They had a heavy-weight pump of some kind and several lengths of working hoses. Relieved, Danny stopped to get his breath and looked around for where else he could try to help.
Alfie Delaney was loading boxes of American and Canadian cigarettes behind wooden packing cases that had already been stowed and were bound for the south of the country. He would not drive the wagon off the dock himself; he was too cunning by half. If it was searched, and the smuggled goods were discovered, he would be in the clear.
He knew the driver on a casual basis so he didn’t need to go into too much detail – loose lips and all that. This particular driver was well known for slipping into a certain roadside canteen and it wouldn’t do any harm to slip him a few bob for a decent fry-up seeing as they weren’t rationed – yet. This close to Christmas, Delaney thought, keeping a furtive eye out for anyone watching, it was odds on that this load would be interesting to Harry Calendar’s lads while the driver enjoyed his breakfast. Job done.
Sarah took the Junior Red Cross motto ‘Serve One Another’ very seriously when she went as a VAD to the Liverpool Infirmary to study first aid and home nursing. When she was off duty she helped with hospital fund raising, knitting for the troops and providing ‘comforts’, proud of the fact she was serving as many people as she could possibly manage. This evening she’d been sent to join the first-aiders who manned the docks during air raids.
‘Here you go, lassie,’ said the leading first-aider, handing her a tin helmet. ‘Try this for size.’ The first aid post, north of Canada Dock, was no bigger than Pop’s pigeon loft. It contained a Primus stove, a table, a couple of straight-backed chairs and a black box marked ‘First Aid’, which she was warned never to touch without the permission of the leading first-aider, a doctor from the nearby hospital who introduced himself only as McTaggart.
Learning she might be called upon to help with ambulance duties, Sarah felt ever so responsible. This is what she had worked towards in the St John Ambulance Brigade during that quiet time that everybody called ‘the phoney war’.
‘You must be prepared for every eventuality,’ McTaggart, who was about the same age as Pop, informed her, and Sarah nodded. She wanted to be in the thick of it, saving lives, and getting stuck in, like Mam and Pop would be doing with their fire watching and ARP duties now.
‘Your first duty,’ McTaggart said grimly, ‘and one of the most important duties you will ever be asked to perform …’ Sarah could hardly breathe she was so excited ‘… is to put the kettle on and make everyone a cup of tea. You never know when you’ll get another.’ Immediately her enthusiasm waned. She could stay at home and make tea!
‘You will soon find out that the most welcome sight, giving fighting men and women the sustenance to carry on, is a hot cup of tea – you will be a heroine in no time,’ he laughed, and Sarah pulled a truculent face.
However, his raised eyebrow expression told her not to argue. Ten minutes later, she was carrying a tray of tea things to the waiting medics at the ready near their ambulances, on standby to replace the last lot as the docks needed twenty-four-hour medical support.
The docks were burning now and so too were the sheds and warehouses as Sarah returned for more cups. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she wondered when it would be her time to shine. When the kettle boiled she replenished the pot and her face turned a warm shade of pink when one of the first-aiders told her not to use so much tea.
‘It doesn’t grow on trees, you know.’ Sarah contained the pithy reply that it did, actually, as she left the first-aid post with a tray of full cups in her hands, and another enemy plane roared overhead just as she was crossing the cobbled road.
‘Get out of the way! Take cover!’ Men were shouting fit to burst as a basket of incendiary bombs exploded above her head. Sarah could not move. She was too stunned even to drop the tray. Looking at the ground, she waited for what seemed like eternity, frozen to the spot, waiting to meet her maker. Then suddenly she felt her feet taken from under her and herself being scooped up in strong arms and carried from the road. For a moment Sarah and her rescuer crouched in the shelter of an alley between two warehouses.
‘Bloody hell, Sar!’ said Danny Callaghan, breathless when they dared to raise their heads as thick, acrid smoke filled the cold night air. ‘You pick your time to do a rabbit-caught-in-the-headlight impression!’
Sarah, open-mouthed, could not believe how close she had just come to being injured – or worse. Then she realised that she did not have a single cup left on the tray she still clutched. ‘Oh, no,’ she cried, ‘I’m going to get into big trouble for breaking those cups.’
‘I don’t mean to alarm you, Sar,’ Danny shouted over the general chaos of burning buildings, flying bombs and dropping incendiaries, ‘but there is a war on, and we are right in the thick of it – who’s worried about a few smashed cups?’
‘There’s no need to shout, Danny. I just made that pot of tea, fresh.’
‘Well, it looks like you might have to make another one.’ Danny shook his head. Sarah was a bit scatty sometimes. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, towards Canada Dock, Danny saw Alfie Delaney parking a covered lorry outside the dock gates. Jumping out and, looking both ways, Delaney crossed the road to Bent-nose Jake’s, the public house opposite.
Danny watched Delaney slipping inside the pub, a notorious drinking hole for vagabonds and ne’er-do-wells. Danny knew that the charge hand should be on the twilight shift or on fire-watch, at least. When there were raids like this the dock workers could be here all night as nobody – at least not any man who had a conscience – would ever leave his mates to fend for themselves. Nobody in their right mind, let alone a foreman, would leave the dock to burn and go to have a bevvy.
‘If you’re all right now, Sar, I’ll have to go and give the men a hand. Are you sure you’re not hurt?’
‘Thanks to you I’m fine, Dan,’ Sarah said. ‘A bit shaky, but I’ve no excuse not to get back to tea duty. But thank you again, and I’ll see you later. Good luck.’ The two of them exchanged a look for a brief moment and Sarah felt something unspoken pass between them. She wasn’t sure that she could define it, but it caused her to reach out and squeeze his hand with her own.
Danny returned the gesture with gentle pressure of his own and one of his winning smiles. ‘You too. Be careful.’ With that, Danny sprinted towards the dock gate and disappeared into the smoke.
Sarah wished that he would tell somebody – Kitty, at least – that he had a heart condition. His ailment could kill him at any time, yet he would not hear of disclosing it, telling Sarah that an over-large heart would define him and cause people to pity him. Sarah could understand his reasoning. After all, her brother Frank thought exactly the same way about his amputated leg and continued to serve his country. Frank told Mam that there was nothing wrong with his brain and it might even come in useful one day.
However, Sarah felt that her knowledge of Danny’s condition was becoming an increasing burden and wished she could tell somebody about it, especially when the likes of Vera Delaney gave free rein to her snippy comments. Sarah wondered how much longer she could bear Danny’s secret alone. Many a time she had been tempted to tell Kitty the truth – but Danny had sworn her to secrecy.
CHAPTER NINE
December 1940
Two sleepless weeks of worry had passed since Danny and Kitty heard the news about Jack. They tried to keep it light for Tommy’s sake, telling him that no further news was good news – but even they did not believe it wholeheartedly. Danny had tried telephoning for more news but it was difficult to get through to the number for the naval base that Jack had given him last time he was at home on leave, and then when he did speak to someone he was told that as soon as they had any more news, next of kin would be informed. Next of kin … Even the phrase sounded doom-laden.
‘I suppose they’ve got to say that, Dan,’ Kitty said one evening, taking the ta
blecloth off the table for the third time, shaking it and putting it back on again. There was not enough to do when she was in such an agitated state but she was trying to appear calm for the sake of her brothers. ‘Anybody could say they were us.’
‘What do you mean, Kit?’
‘Well, how do they know we are Jack’s family?’ She wondered if Rita had rung the naval base from the hospital. ‘We could be anybody, and the navy aren’t going to give information out to people who are not family.’
‘Don’t talk so daft!’ Danny answered, and immediately regretted the retort that sounded harsher than he intended. He took a deep breath. It was the not knowing that was getting him down, and he shouldn’t take it out on Kitty. She was going through the same thing and handling it much better. ‘I’m sorry, Kit, all I meant was, who else would be ringing to ask if our Jack was all right?’
‘I know.’ Kitty gave her brother’s arm a reassuring pat even though she didn’t feel too reassured either. However, she did not intend to tell their Danny about the letters Jack had been writing to Rita Kennedy. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying lately.’
A ran-tan on the front door had them skidding down the lobby, but they still did not want to take the telegram being offered by the young lad in the Post Office uniform.
Kitty held the telegram in her hand. Danny was standing on one side of her, Tommy on the other.
‘Will there be any reply?’ the young telegraph lad asked.
Danny took the telegram from Kitty’s hands and sliced it open, both dreading yet eager to see the contents.
His eyes quickly zigzagged the page, his face expressionless.
Kitty hardly dared to breathe. Her heart was thumping so powerfully in her chest it made her feel light-headed. Then Danny’s face cracked into a huge smile and the agonising wait was over.
‘He’s alive, Kit! Our Jack’s alive!’ he shouted, waving the telegram in the air.
‘What does it say?’ Tommy yelled.
Kitty, hardly able to believe the news, snatched the telegram from Danny’s hands and read the words.
‘Battered stop Bruised stop Limping merrily home stop’.
She threw her arms around her younger brothers and as tears streamed down their faces they hugged each other, dancing around in circles until a small cough behind them sobered them slightly.
‘Will there be any reply?’ The telegraph boy had a wide grin on his face, relieved that he was a welcome sight this time.
‘No reply, Sunny Jim!’ Danny fished in his pocket and brought out half a crown. The young lad’s eyes lit up.
‘Have you got change of this?’ Danny asked solemnly and, seeing the young lad’s eager smile disappear, he laughed. ‘I’m only having you on. Here, take it. All the very best to you and yours.’ After all, it was nearly Christmas.
‘Ta, mister,’ the young lad called as he got back on his Post Office-issue bicycle and whistled down the street.
‘Half a crown!’ Tommy gasped. ‘If I’d have known you were feeling so generous, I’d have gone to the post office meself!’
Ruffling his younger brother’s hair Danny laughed out loud then said a silent thank you to his heavenly mother for looking out for Jack.
‘Let’s just thank our lucky stars, hey, Tom?’ Kitty laughed, feeling suddenly that life could not get any better than this. She would have to run over the road and tell Aunty Doll and the rest of the Feenys. With a bit of luck Rita would be home from the hospital by now and Kitty couldn’t wait to share the good news.
A few days later, Rita was on her way to work as she passed the door of the Callaghan house. It was early, so early that the sun hadn’t yet reared its head and the purple hues of a cold and frosty dawn were just starting to make their way across the horizon. Despite the hour, Empire Street wasn’t asleep. The baker’s van had already passed on its way; the milkman was doing his round on his horse-drawn cart and was whistling a merry tune.
‘Rita!’ Kitty poked her head around the door – she was still in her nightdress and dressing gown and her hair was pinned up in a haphazard fashion. When she heard her name, Rita retraced her steps.
‘Morning, Kitty. What is it?’ Rita thought that despite the hour and her rather dishevelled morning appearance, Kitty still looked like peaches and cream. She could see why her brother Frank might be keen on Kitty.
‘Have you got a minute, Rita?’
Rita hesitated. Her shift was due to start at 6.30am and she was running a little later than usual. She had already worked an eleven-hour shift the previous day and had struggled to get herself out of bed this morning. As she readied herself in the dark she could hear Ma Kennedy’s heavy snoring in the adjoining bedroom and reflected that her own mother would have already been up and about with a fire in the grate, a steaming hot cup of tea in the pot and something warm and filling for Pop’s stomach to get him started for the day. With no such treatment in the Kennedy household, Rita was keen to get to the hospital so that she could have a warming cuppa before her shift started, but she always had time for Kitty.
‘I’ve got five minutes,’ she offered and stepped over the threshold where she followed Kitty into the cosy kitchen where a kettle was set to boil on the oven.
‘Thanks, Rita. I won’t keep you, but I thought you’d want to see this.’ Kitty thrust a letter into her hands and Rita thrilled when she saw Jack Callaghan’s distinctive handwriting on the front of the envelope.
Despite herself and her promise to put Jack out of her mind, the worry that something terrible had happened to him and then the welcome news that he was safe had brought everything back to the surface again. Rita didn’t think she would ever forget the overwhelming sense of relief when Tommy had come tearing into the Feeny household and told them the news that Jack may be the walking wounded but that he was alive and well.
‘I know it’s early, but I thought you’d want to read it straight away. He sent us a letter too.’
Rita stuffed the letter into her pocket. ‘I’ll read it when I get to the hospital.’
Kitty smiled at her and Rita could see no sign of her friend’s earlier misgivings. ‘It’s great news that Jack’s safe, isn’t it, Rita?’ Kitty’s eyes were shining. ‘He says they might be sending him home. He doesn’t know when but Rita, he might be home for Christmas, wouldn’t that be wonderful!’
Rita traced her fingers over Jack’s letter, ‘I couldn’t think of anything better, Kit.’
There was no time for the longed-for cuppa when Rita arrived at the hospital. A number of seriously ill patients who had been injured in raids on Ellesmere Port had been transferred to Bootle Infirmary and it was all-hands-on-deck for the entire morning. It was well into the afternoon before Rita could take a short break and she found a quiet corner of the staff sitting room to open the letter.
Dear Rita
I know that you said that you wouldn’t write to me anymore and I understand why, but you didn’t say anything about me not writing to you, so I’ve taken the liberty. Please don’t ask me to stop. It keeps my mind off other matters and even though we can’t share things like we used to, it gives me comfort to know that I’m putting words down on paper that you’ll read and think about. I’ll certainly be thinking about you.
No doubt you’ll have heard the news about what happened out at sea. The censors will have a field day if I say too much but it is probably enough to say that things could have been a lot worse than they were for me if it wasn’t for the bravery and courage of my fellow men. It makes a man proud to serve with men such as these. We all wish this blasted war would end, but we’ll keep fighting until we’ve wiped Hitler and his Nazis off the face of this earth.
I’m not sure when I’ll be home again, but the people at home are always in my thoughts and I hope I am in theirs too. One day we’ll be able to talk freely and to say the things that are on our minds. I look forward to that day, Rita. I know it will come.
Yours
Jack
Rita took the letter a
nd brought it to her nose. Did she imagine that she could detect Jack’s scent; that distinctive mixture of sandalwood and musk that she remembered so well? Rita folded the letter and put it in the pocket of her uniform. The rest of the day was as hectic and eventful as the morning had been, but every now and then, in quiet moments, Rita would reach into her pocket and touch Jack’s letter. Yes, she thought, keep writing Jack, I won’t ask you to stop, not ever.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Will somebody answer that front door?’ Dolly called from the back kitchen, where she was putting a folded sheet through the rubber rollers of the mangle and delighting in the amount of water that cascaded into the little galvanised bowl sitting on the floor underneath. The front door was usually open from first thing in the morning until last thing at night, but the weather had taken a turn for the worse and the thick December fog, mixed with the smoke puffing from every chimney, meandered up the thin lobbies, right through the little terraced houses and clung to the damp walls.
‘If it’s the coalman, watch what he’s putting down that coal hole because I’m sure he diddled me last week. There was definitely not a hundredweight of coal in that cellar!’ If Dolly thought she was being short-changed, she said so. The coalman would still expect his Christmas box even though there was not much coal to be had lately. Most of what they could get hold of was mixed with coke or even those awful coal dust ‘briquettes’, which were only marginally better than nothing.
‘Mam!’ Sarah, who had been having a dinnertime bowl of vegetable soup in the other room called from the front door. ‘Will you come out here a minute, please?’
Sarah sounded a bit formal … Dolly felt a frisson of fear shoot through her, making her heart beat wildly. She hoped the official-sounding ran-tan on the front door was not a telegraph boy. Quickly she dried her hands on her pinny and headed towards the door, dreading bad news of Eddy, who was supposedly heading home in the North Atlantic, or Frank, who, although now shore-based in Southampton, was perpetually in danger of being bombed. Not today, Dolly prayed as she hurried along the narrow passageway, not a week before Christmas. Nor any day, for that matter …