Christmas on the Mersey

by Annie Groves

  ‘D’you fancy going to the pictures, Spud?’ Danny asked Tommy, whose eyes lit up. It did not matter what was on as long as he and Danny had a night out together.

  Maybe it would be better if he were away from the docklands, Kitty thought. It would certainly be safer.

  ‘I’ll go an’ get washed,’ Tommy said, feeling really grown up. Going to the pictures in the blackout was a big thing for him. He didn’t know he was being buttered up before his older brother and sister brought up the thorny subject of evacuation again.

  ‘Christmas under fire!’ The American voice boomed out of the screen to the watching audience. Tommy, out of hospital only that day, wriggled in his seat, impatiently waiting for Charlie Chaplin in the film The Great Dictator to start. He could do with a good laugh. Sighing, he sat back and watched. Why did soppy Americans think England looked like the lid of a chocolate box, with little thatched cottages and roaring fires? And why were they still showing this after Christmas? Tommy shivered. Most people he knew would think it nice to have a roaring fire anytime, not just Christmas, he thought.

  ‘America is happy to promote Great Britain’s cause,’ said the voiceover.

  ‘Not so happy to join us, though,’ Danny whispered, and Tommy nodded.

  ‘British Christmas, history and traditions are ideals worth fighting for … There is no need to feel sorry for England this Christmas …’

  ‘So that’s their consciences salved.’ Danny was getting impatient now.

  ‘Because England doesn’t feel sorry for herself …’

  ‘Just as well!’ Tommy decided he would join his brother, who shushed him.

  ‘… Today England stands unbeaten, unconquered and unafraid!’

  ‘Aye, and alone, thanks to you lot!’ A male voice shouted from the back of the picture house as a small ripple of laughter swept the darkened cinema.

  Tommy’s eyes were bright when they came out of the picture house into the black street. Instinctively they looked up to the sky but it was eerily quiet tonight.

  ‘I hear Manchester’s copping it tonight,’ said a voice in the darkness as the crowd dispersed.

  It was right what the Yanks said on that film, Danny thought. They were standing unconquered but for how long when they were standing alone?

  However, he did not want Tommy’s night ruined with thoughts of more raids – they’d seen enough before Christmas – and the maudlin mood was broken when he encouraged his younger brother to recall bits of the film he liked. Soon the streets were filled with howls of laughter as they discussed Charlie Chaplin’s antics.

  As they neared their own front door, Tommy dreaded the cold kitchen they were about to enter. Kitty was at work so to save the expense the boys hadn’t banked the fire up so the room would be nice and warm when they got home. Tommy hoped it would not take Danny long to get it going again and the place would be warm for Kitty coming home. Perhaps there would be something good on the wireless that they could all listen to when she got back.

  When Rita knocked on the door of the house in Sandy Avenue she was aware of the silence inside. The place was in darkness and Rita wondered if everyone was in bed. It was now quite late. Her heart was racing. ‘Perhaps we should wait until morning when everyone will be awake.’

  ‘You can’t stay here all night,’ Jack reasoned. ‘We’ll freeze to death.’ A cutting wind was blowing straight off the coast and there were still over twenty miles to travel back to Empire Street. Jack could feel the gnawing ache in his shoulder now, brought on most likely by the cold.

  ‘You’re right, Jack. I’m being selfish and you’ve been so good bringing me out here.’

  As Rita hopped onto the cart and Jack flipped the reins and headed down the long avenue, a low bee-like buzz of an aeroplane made them look up into the black cloudless sky.

  ‘Is it one of ours, Jack?’ Rita could not prevent the quiver in her voice. The enemy did not often come this far up the west coast. There was nothing here worth bombing. No docks. No factories, but that wouldn’t necessarily stop the Germans. It was a quiet coastal resort with Punch and Judy booths on the promenade and, when there was spare sugar, stripy sticks of rock. This is as far removed from the docks as it’s possible to be, thought Rita, and then automatically ducked as the enemy plane soared overhead. Jack cocooned her body with his own, wrapping his arms around her. There had not even been an air-raid warning.

  ‘It’s all right, Reet. Shh, it’s all right!’ Moments later a huge explosion ripped through the avenue and Rita could not stem the scream that escaped her lips.

  ‘My babies!’ Quickly she turned and what she saw filled her with horror. The front door they had knocked on not half an hour ago no longer existed – nor did the front half of the house! Without thinking she jumped down from the cart but Jack was already ahead of her.

  She followed him as fast as her legs would carry her, and as they got to the mound of rubble that had once been number thirteen Sandy Avenue she could see Megan’s coat draped over a straight-backed chair.

  ‘Megan!’

  ‘Here, was that Elsie Lowe’s house?’ Vera Delaney’s cousin Tilly asked, hurrying from round the corner where she lived, and down the avenue in her carpet slippers. ‘I was just settling down to Charlie Chester!’ She stopped at the gate of number thirteen, where there was a gaping hole in the garden and in the garden of the house next door.

  ‘I’m the fire warden,’ Tilly offered without being asked. However, Rita was not listening; she was tearing at the gate bolt that had buckled in the blast, trying to get closer to the house.

  ‘Here, you don’t want to get too close – it’s not safe!’ An air raid warden in a tin hat, a boiler suit and Wellington boots came equipped with a pickaxe and a roll of rope hanging from his arm.

  ‘My children are here!’ Did these people not understand the urgency of rescue? Rita had seen this kind of thing before and she had helped drag people from demolished premises.

  Rita eventually managed to push the gate bolt to one side and she began to frantically drag bricks from the rubble.

  ‘Rita, don’t do that!’ Jack stilled her hand. ‘It’s dangerous. The whole lot might go.’

  ‘But I’ve got to find them, Jack,’ Rita whimpered. ‘They’re my babies.’ Her eyes were pleading now and suddenly he took her in his arms and held her close as her sobs rocked both their bodies in the darkness of the night.

  ‘Oh, Jack, I will die if I’ve got this far and they are … they are …’ Another sob racked her body and she could not say the words. She did not care what Charlie Kennedy thought any more – there was nothing in the world that could hurt her as much as he had hurt her. If she saw him here now she would kill him – so help her! It was only Jack’s loving arms around her that stopped her from collapsing altogether.

  ‘Mam! Mam, we’re over here!’ Suddenly her little girl’s voice could be heard from the other side of the street. Rita was thrilled to see Megan hurrying towards her, while Michael was holding an older woman’s hand as they crossed the road.

  ‘Oh, thank God you are safe!’ Rita felt her knees buckle with relief.

  All of a sudden there were people everywhere. Southport had seen few explosions and its people were making the most of the excitement.

  ‘There’s a designated rest centre in the church hall,’ the middle-aged man in Wellingtons said in his official capacity of air raid warden. ‘Everybody, get around to the designated rest centre. We don’t know if there are any more bombers to come, but the ack-acks said the sky is clear.’ The crowd moved to the church hall – eager now to be off the street. Later they discovered that the German bombers had dropped their load on their way home after a bombing mission in Manchester.

  ‘Where’s your father?’ Rita asked her children as a super-efficient WVS woman offered tea and a sympathetic ear. All news went through her via the air raid warden and it was obvious that tonight’s excitement would be a talking point for weeks to come.

  ‘He went for a bre
ath of fresh air with Aunty Elsie,’ Michael said. ‘They go every night.’

  ‘Do they now?’ Rita fumed. It was bad enough her husband had deserted her and taken their children with him – but to add insult to injury he was out every night with his fancy woman! Went for a walk indeed! She’d give him walking and no mistake.

  ‘We were staying with Mrs Finch because Ruby’s not feeling well.’

  ‘Ruby!’ Rita could feel the acid bile rise in her throat as the children moved out of the way to introduce a fair-haired female, who had enormous baby-blue eyes and an air of childlike innocence. Even with all the hubbub and confusion, Rita could see the clear resemblance to Winnie Kennedy in Ruby’s face.

  ‘Hello, Ruby,’ Rita said in a softer voice, sensing Ruby was too old to be a child, yet not worldly wise enough to be called a woman. ‘My name is Rita, I am—’

  ‘Michael and Megan’s mummy.’ Ruby seemed delighted and her innocence shone through. Rita nodded.

  ‘And who are you?’ Rita asked as gently as she could, remembering the birth certificate.

  ‘I’m Ruby.’ The girl-woman said. ‘I like Michael and Megan, they’re my friends.’

  ‘Do you know where their daddy is?’ Rita asked, feeling strangely calm now. It didn’t matter where Charlie was or who he was with, her children were leaving here tonight.

  ‘He gone to walk and come back later – he stinks!’ Ruby said, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘We think he goes to the pub with Mrs Lowe,’ Michael said belligerently.

  ‘Does he now?’ Rita offered. All the more reason for taking her children home. Anything could have happened tonight.

  Rita and Jack took the children out to Pop’s cart and wrapped them in warm blankets, ready to go home to Empire Street. Ruby came along too, and Rita had a vague idea that she’d deliver her back to the care of Charlie and Elsie. Then they settled down to wait on the corner of Sandy Avenue for Charlie’s appearance.

  When Charlie turned into the avenue shortly afterwards with a brassy blonde on his arm, Rita saw she was exactly like Vera had described, clinging to his arm and scraping her high heels on the pavement, obviously worse for drink. Charlie seemed more perturbed that Rita had been brought here by Jack Callaghan than that his children had almost been blown sky-high.

  ‘Who told you where we were – my mother?’ Charlie was obviously angry. Too angry to listen to reason.

  ‘Did you think you could keep them away from me for ever, Charlie?’ Rita asked, just as the peroxide blonde in the leopard-skin coat stepped forward. However, Rita’s angry expression silently warned her not to get much closer.

  ‘Come along, Charlie,’ said Elsie imperiously, reminding Rita very much of his mother, ‘collect the children and we will be off.’

  ‘And where exactly would you be “off” to, may I ask?’ Rita knew they didn’t stand a chance of keeping the children now. ‘The front half of your house – or rather, the front half of his mother’s house – is no longer there! Have you not noticed, lady?’

  Charlie viewed the wreckage of the boarding house with dismay. ‘We’ll find something,’ he offered limply. ‘There are loads of boarding houses here.’

  ‘Not since Jerry started leaving his calling card in Liverpool there aren’t!’ Rita said, hands on hips. ‘They’ve all moved out here! Or in Crosby, perhaps?’ Rita watched him squirm now. Oh, how she longed to slap that stupid expression off his face! But she would not lower herself in front of her children.

  ‘I need to be near my place of work.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about your work, Charlie,’ Rita said. ‘Since you have been busy with … other things,’ her disgusted eyes ran the length of Elsie Lowe, ‘there has been a war on.’ Rita leaned towards him and he retreated a little. ‘You may not have heard, this far out in the green belt, but our houses are being blown up on a nightly basis.’

  ‘Ignore her, Charles; the woman obviously has little idea—’ Her words were cut short.

  ‘The woman is his wife!’ Rita felt Jack’s hand on her arm and she was reminded there were children present. She did not care if Charlie left her for this woman.

  ‘Do you know you bear more than a passing resemblance to his mother? In deed if not in looks.’ Rita heard an audible gasp as she turned to Charlie.

  ‘If only I had known you liked to be dominated by women, I’d have smacked you up and down Empire Street every day, Charlie – and I could have.’ She turned back now to Elsie Lowe. ‘Well, good luck to you, love, because you are welcome to him!’ She turned away and then stopped and turned back.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she rummaged in her bag, ‘I forgot to give you these – I think you’ll find they’re your call-up papers.’ With a final smile of satisfaction Rita breathed a sigh of relief. She climbed onto the cart beside Jack and said, ‘Come on, children, we’re going home.’

  As the cart rumbled away she heard Charlie crumple the papers she had just given him.

  ‘You bitch! Just you wait – you won’t get away with this.’

  As his vicious words reached her, Jack pulled the cart up short and jumped out. Jack made a beeline for Charlie, who shied away from him and made to dart behind Elsie, but there was no escape from the wrath of Jack Callaghan, who grabbed Charlie by the lapel of his coat, pulled back his fist and threw an almighty punch which hit him squarely on the jaw. Charlie reeled and lost his footing, falling to one knee while massaging his already swelling jaw.

  ‘You filthy guttersnipe.’ Jack whispered quietly so that the children wouldn’t hear. ‘That’s just a taste of what you can expect if I ever hear one more foul word spoken to Rita, do you hear me?’

  Charlie looked up at Jack with surly, hooded eyes but dared say nothing.

  ‘And I don’t expect to see you back in Empire Street any time soon, right?’ Jack left Charlie where he was, while Elsie hopped from one foot to another, clearly uncertain what to do next. Rita heard her say, ‘You never told me you were married!’

  ‘Goodbye, Charlie,’ Rita shouted from the cart. ‘And if Jack hasn’t knocked some sense into you, then I hope the army will.’

  However, Rita’s victory was fleeting when, halfway down the Southport-to-Liverpool road Rita and Jack could see that the docklands were being attacked once more.

  ‘We can’t take them back to Empire Street,’ Jack said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘We have to take them to Joan,’ Rita said, hoping the farmer’s wife would have room. The kids had been happy there. When she asked them if they would like to go and see Aunty Joan the children were thrilled.

  Thankfully, Joan and Seth were delighted to see the children, too – and Ruby, who somehow had got caught up in all the commotion and had simply stowed away on the cart with her ‘friends’.

  ‘Ruby is our friend!’ Michael and Megan chorused, and although Rita knew she was much more to her children than just their friend, she had no intentions of sorting out the whys and the wherefores until she got back to Empire Street. And when she did she had some very strong words to share with Mrs Kennedy.

  Frank, in his usual unassuming way, wondered if Britain had not been involved in this awful, sickening war whether he would have been able to secure the post he now enjoyed in the Royal Navy he loved. Given his injury, he doubted it.

  Luckily, he was able to convince the medical people who mattered, and they in turn informed the navy that Frank was of sound mind and apart from having half a leg missing, sound in body too. He would be very much of an asset to the King’s naval base at HMS Collingwood, they said and Frank had proved them right.

  Here, he was able to pass on the knowledge he had garnered from his front-line naval service to the ratings in the branch known as Weapon and Radio.

  As Frank proudly walked the long corridor to the Commodore’s office ratings smartly saluted and Frank did likewise, knowing it was his treasured cap badge, not the man, that they honoured with this respect.

  ‘Enter!’

  Frank smartly rem
oved his cap and stepped into the small room furnished with little more than a telephone on a desk, a few chairs and a filing cabinet.

  A middle-aged man with swept-back hair, whom Frank immediately recognised as the First Lord of the Admiralty, was sitting near the blacked-out window.

  ‘First of all I want to say congratulations!’ the com­manding officer said.

  Frank’s eyebrows pleated in confusion.

  ‘Congratulations, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Warrant Officer Feeny.’ The commander smiled and the penny dropped when he warmly shook Frank’s hand. He had been promoted. He knew Mam and Pop would be so proud – Kitty would be, too. For it was Kitty he wanted to tell most of all.

  He went on to tell Frank that now that Combined Operations had made the decision to relocate to Liverpool, he was to be based there with immediate effect, preparing for the commanding officer’s arrival.

  The headquarters set up beneath Derby House looked nothing special, which was deliberate. However, under the seemingly inconsequential block of offices, deep below street level in a bombproof subterranean vault, was a large operations network linked to the Admiralty.

  Frank had learned that the Royal Navy, Royal Air Force, and Royal Marines would work jointly in the underground bunker on what was to be known as Combined Operations. They were responsible for the safety of naval vessels in the Western Approaches, and Derby House was the vital nerve centre of the entire war in the Atlantic.

  As he walked down the concrete steps to the level below, Frank breathed the cool, still air. The electric light was the only means of illumination as there were no windows down here, and he felt a surge of pride shoot through him. He was home and he knew this building was to become as familiar as his own room back in Empire Street.