When the Clouds Go Rolling By

by June Francis

  It was after lunch on Sunday afternoon that Clara decided that, instead of writing to Alice, she would write to Joy. She would kill two birds with one stone by asking her whether she thought Mrs Black would let her have some more skin salve, a bottle of tonic and some cordial. She would pay for them, of course. Also, she would ask her whether Alice had received her letter and whether Freddie was safe. She posted the letter and prayed for a speedy reply.

  But all thought of letters and tonics was forgotten the next morning when it became known that the Prime Minister had announced that the armistice had been signed. The workers were told they could have the day off and there was a rush to leave the factory.

  The news spread like wildfire and flags were hoisted on buildings. As she hurried home, Clara could hear cheer after cheer breaking out and hundreds of people appeared on the streets carrying Union flags. In the shop windows in Breck Road, the flags of all the Allies were displayed. Ships’ sirens on the Mersey cock-a-doodle-dooed and there was a part of Clara that wanted to dance and sing, but another part wanted to weep because her father was not there to celebrate the peace with her.

  When Clara arrived home, Bernie was standing in the doorway, wearing a coat and hat and with a scarf about her neck. ‘I wondered if yer’d be home early. I thought we might go down to the pub,’ she said.

  ‘The pub,’ echoed Clara.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Bernie, her eyes bright. ‘I thought yer might like to treat me to a celebratory drink.’

  ‘Now, if you were paying, Gran, I might agree,’ said Clara with a faint smile. ‘Right now, I’d like a cup of hot tea.’

  Bernie’s face fell. ‘Tea?’

  ‘You heard me. And later maybe there’ll be some dancing in the street.’ She pushed past her grandmother, aware of her cursing her under her breath, and questioned why, if her gran cared so much about her Denny, the old woman felt in a mood to celebrate.

  The celebrations in their street were subdued. Too many people had lost loved ones for them to go wild with joy and excitement. Besides, November was not the best of months to spend hours outside in gay abandon and many were wondering what the future would hold for them after four years of war. Clara could not prevent her thoughts straying to those related to her on the other side of the Mersey.

  * * *

  ‘Have you heard the news? The headlines are up on the newspaper stands,’ said Kenny, limping into Alice’s sitting room. ‘The armistice has been signed. The fighting’s over and the Allies are victorious.’ He put his arms round his half-sister and held her tight.

  Seb stared at them both as if in a daze and sat down heavily on the sofa. He clutched his damaged arm and thought of his dead comrades. He still could not get the screams of the wounded and dying, the roar of the guns and the thud, thud of the shells, the smell of death and cordite all around him, out of his head.

  He blundered to his feet, knowing he had to get out of the room. As he hurried towards the front door he heard Alice calling him but he ignored her and ran until he reached Queen’s Park bridge. He stopped in the middle and gazed down at the grey waters, aware of a tightness about his skull. The headaches were not as bad as they were in the beginning, but lately they had grown worse. He guessed it was due to his continuous worry about his useless arm. Seb thought about the orthopaedic surgeon he had seen recently. His prognosis had not been good; he had said that, without the full use of nerve and muscle, the arm would be nothing more than a dead weight in the end. Perhaps if there was no improvement in the months that followed, he should consider amputation.

  Seb had been horrified and refused point blank to consider the idea. The doctor had looked at him with a weary, sympathetic expression and asked him to give it some thought. Seb had not mentioned the conversation to Alice. He considered it was difficult enough for her having to look at his ugly mug all the time without having to accept his having only one arm. He slammed his fist against the metal ledge of the bridge and swore long and hard. Then suddenly he became aware of cheers and someone calling his name.

  ‘Sebby-boy!’ A hand clapped him on the shoulder.

  He looked up in amazement into the moustachioed face of Donald Pierce. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were back in France,’ said Seb.

  ‘I was. But the old foot has been giving me gyp, so I was sent over to London. I saw some quack there who suggested maybe it’s time I went home.’

  Seb noticed he was using a walking stick. ‘I saw a doc last week and he thinks I should have my arm off,’ said Seb. He had not meant to tell anyone that just yet and could have bitten off his tongue.

  Donald’s expression altered, became angry. He put his arm about Seb. ‘I hope you told him to go to hell. I did to my quack. Never told you several little bones were crushed in my foot, did I? Bugger to fix and hellishly painful. The quack said I’d be better off without the foot.’

  Seb swore. ‘I suppose you told him you’d soldier on.’

  Donald’s eyes lit up. ‘I wish I’d thought of those exact words. Anyhow, I thought I’d come and see how you were doing before I set sail for New York. I’m leaving from Liverpool in a couple of days.’

  Seb noticed he was carrying a suitcase. ‘That’s good of you. You’ll stay with us tonight?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d ask.’ He hugged Seb against him and together they made their way across the bridge, discussing the news of the armistice as they went.

  On reaching the end of the bridge, they were met by a palefaced Alice. After a swift, intense look at Seb, she turned her attention to the American. ‘Mr Pierce. What a surprise!’

  ‘It’s great to see you, Mrs Bennett, and looking so lovely,’ he said gallantly.

  She fought down a blush. ‘It’s nice of you to say so. Will you be staying with us?’

  ‘Of course he’s staying with us,’ said Seb, reaching out a hand and clasping hers. ‘Is Kenny still at the house? I’d like him to meet Don.’

  She nodded. ‘He’s talking to Tilly. The children have been sent home. They want to put up a Union flag in the window.’

  ‘Why not? Between us we should manage it.’

  Alice looked relieved. ‘Let’s celebrate. I’ve managed to get my hands on some whisky and sherry.’

  He glanced at Donald. ‘I bet you’re ready for a wee dram?’ The American grinned. ‘Surprised you needed to ask.’ Arm in arm, they hurried up the crescent.

  Tilly and Alice decided to serve a buffet meal in the drawing room. James, aided by his father, managed to hang the Union flag up in the dining room window, while Flora fussed around, telling them to move it when it was crooked and at last when it hung straight. Seb patted his son on the back and thanked them both. They wandered into the kitchen, pleased with themselves.

  Meanwhile, Kenny and Donald appeared to have found a common interest in journalism. Tilly wished she could have listened in on their conversation instead of helping Alice. After what her brother had told her about Seb rushing out of the house, it was a relief to see him and Alice seemingly on good terms with each other again. The atmosphere in the house had been strained since Seb’s return two months ago, and she worried about the pair of them. Now, with the armistice signed, she had high hopes of life getting back to some semblance of normality and resuming her writing.

  She was in the process of carrying in a tray of sausage rolls, meat pies, cake, sandwiches and scones when Donald came out of the sitting room.

  ‘Can I help you with that?’ he asked.

  ‘No thanks. But perhaps you can help Seb with the drinks. He’s still having trouble with his arm. Alice is making a pot of tea for those of us who aren’t allowed alcohol.’

  ‘Your brother was telling me about your writing.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m only a beginner.’ She couldn’t think what else to say, unable to boast of having even one letter to the editor published. She wondered if he was famous in America for his work in photojournalism.

  ‘If you stick at it, kid, one day you’ll get there,
’ he said. ‘What is it you’re wanting to write?’

  ‘Books, eventually, but I need more experience of life. I’d like to travel.’

  He smiled. ‘Where to?’

  ‘London, Paris, Venice.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Of course, I’ll need to make some money first.’

  ‘What about the United States?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Never thought of going that far.’

  ‘I’ll be going back home in a couple of days. I’ll send you some pictures.’

  She was surprised by how dismayed she felt at the news. ‘Will you ever come back here again?’

  ‘Maybe, but I’ve things to sort out at home before I can think of going travelling again.’

  ‘But what about your work?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find something to photograph at home.’ His eyes twinkled down at her. ‘I’d like to take a shot of you before I go. Show my mom and sisters what pretty girls they grow in England.’

  ‘There’s prettier girls than me,’ said Tilly, flattered none the less.

  ‘You’re the one I reckon is photogenic. I might even get your picture in a magazine.’

  She shook her head at him, not knowing whether he was serious or teasing her. He appeared to her to be so sophisticated that suddenly she longed for the plain-speaking familiarity of Freddie. ‘I don’t know why you should bother,’ she said. ‘We hardly know each other and you’re so much older than me.’

  He winced. ‘Ouch! Only by nine years. By the time you’re twenty-one the difference in our ages won’t matter.’

  She thought, he can’t be serious. ‘This is a daft conversation,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve loads to do before I settle down.’

  His smile deepened. ‘Sure you have, but just to make sure you don’t forget me, I’ll write a long letter and send you some pictures of my home town.’

  Tilly did not know how to answer that so she just nodded and hurried to place the contents of her tray on a large occasional table set between two chintz covered sofas near the fireplace. How could she possibly take the American seriously? Words were cheap and he would soon forget her once he arrived back in his own country. If she was to marry in a few years’ time, Freddie really was a much safer bet.

  Her heart lifted at the thought that now the war was over it shouldn’t be too long before he was home. Perhaps in the new year, before Hanny’s baby was born. Births, marriages, deaths, all were important life experiences, she mused.

  ‘You look like you’ve gone off into a dream,’ said a voice nearby.

  Tilly turned and saw Hanny. ‘I was just thinking of you.’

  ‘Something nice, I hope.’ Hanny glanced round the room and her blue eyes rested on her brother-in-law, ‘So how do you think Seb is doing now?’

  ‘Hopefully now the armistice has been signed we’ll start getting back to normal, but I wouldn’t count on it. Things still aren’t right with them. I think he’s really worried about his arm. Sometimes I hear them arguing during the night,’ she whispered.

  Hanny nodded. ‘I know, it must be terribly difficult for them both. By the way, do you know if Alice has answered Clara O’Toole’s letter yet? I wrote to Freddie about her wanting to get in touch with Seb. They met, you know.’

  ‘Did they?’ Why did that knowledge irritate her?

  ‘Alice should have answered that letter by now, even if Seb doesn’t want to meet her. It’s not fair to leave her on pins. After all, the poor girl is related to Seb and has lost her father. I know Alice has a lot on her plate but she’s not the only one with troubles.’

  Tilly said, ‘Perhaps I will mention it to Alice, but not today.’

  At that moment a tiny bell drew their attention. They looked in the direction of the sound and saw Seb standing in the middle of the room. ‘A toast and then we can eat.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the valiant dead and to peace.’

  All echoed his words.

  After that they ate and the conversation became more general, but Tilly did not forget what Donald Pierce had said, or Hanny’s words about Seb’s cousin. She supposed Joy was the proper person to speak to about the girl. She wondered how old she was and what she did for a living. Perhaps she would ask Joy the next time she visited Hanny.

  Chapter Eight

  Clara stood in the queue at the Women’s Employment Exchange in Upper Newington Street, her shoulders hunched up against the cold. A light drizzle was falling and she wished herself anywhere other than where she was right then. She had gone in search of a job at the Palladium picture house, but it was closed due to the influenza epidemic. Thankfully, Jean had been right about the rumours of severance pay, and Clara had a sum of money tucked away in a box under the floorboards with the rest of her tiny savings. If she had difficulty getting the right job, then at least she and her gran were not going to lose the roof over their heads or starve for a while.

  Feeling flush for a change, Clara had just over a pound or so burning a hole in her pocket, which she planned on spending later. At the moment she was waiting to fill in forms to register with the Women’s Employment Exchange as available for work. The trouble was that a lack of stationery was causing frustration to all involved. Half an hour ago word had gone round that this building was just not big enough to cope with the number of women now unemployed, so the Liverpool Scottish Drill Hall in Fraser Street was being turned into a new centre, but that didn’t help those waiting as it wasn’t ready yet.

  Perhaps she should have told her gran that she had a lump sum put by then she would not have insisted on her getting out of the house and finding herself another job almost immediately she was out of work. Having said that, her gran was being so difficult at the moment that Clara preferred facing the miserable weather to remaining in the house with her. She just wished that Joy would reply to her letter soon. At least then she would know whether or not to give up hope where her relatives across the Mersey were concerned.

  Clara stamped her feet in an attempt to warm them, thinking of all that had happened since the armistice had been signed. Within days of that longed-for event, the King’s Fund for the Disabled Officers and Men of Navy, Army and Air Forces had launched Gratitude Week. At least something was being done for all those poor men whose lives had been ruined by the war. She thought of her cousin and hoped he would benefit. Trouble was, it wasn’t the Government who were being asked to fork over money but the ordinary people who were being urged to give as they gave for you. As if they hadn’t already given enough for the war effort. She had given something but she could not keep doing that. She hoped that now the coalition government had been disbanded, the party that would be voted in would be one that would help the poor and needy. If she had the vote, she knew which party she would vote for: The Labour Party.

  Clara was roused from her reverie by a woman behind her saying, ‘This is a bloody mug’s game, this. What’s the bloody point of queuing up in the rain when there’s hardly any jobs available?’

  ‘But we’ll only have to queue up again if we leave the queue now,’ said another next to Clara, who was wearing an old-fashioned, huge brimmed hat with a bedraggled feather in it. ‘We need to get our name down if we want the out-of-work donation from the Government.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind coming back tomorrow,’ said the first woman. ‘It mightn’t be raining then, and today TJ Hughes are selling ladies woven combinations for three shillings and eleven pence, halfpenny. I could do with some of them.’

  Clara had seen the advertisement and decided she needed some new underwear for the winter, too. That’s why she had a pound on her. She made a decision. ‘I’ll come with you, if you like. I’m freezing in my summer underwear and they could all be sold out by tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said the first woman, grinning at her. ‘We could walk along together.’

  With their heads lowered against the rain, they hurried in the direction of Lime Street, discussing what else they would like to buy if only they could spare the money. When they reached T
J Hughes, they had to queue up again and, once inside, there was a bit a scrum. Fortunately, Clara managed to get her hands on a set of combinations and also had enough money over to buy herself a pair of winter gloves. Pleased with her purchases, she also treated herself to a cup of cocoa and a bun in a Lyon’s cafe to kill time, knowing that if she arrived home too early, her gran would have something to say to her about quitting her search for a job too easily.

  The rain had stopped by the time Clara arrived home to be greeted by a smiling Bernie, toasting her toes in front of the fire. ‘There yer are, duck,’ she said, turning her head as her granddaughter came through the door. ‘A parcel’s come for yer. I opened it. I didn’t think yer’d mind.’

  ‘You opened something addressed to me!’ said Clara indignantly. ‘You had no right.’

  Bernie’s expression altered. ‘Don’t you give me cheek, girl. I had every right. It contained my tonic.’ She produced a bottle from the other side of her chair. ‘I didn’t open the letter, though. That’s on the mantelpiece.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve discovered something while yous were out, girl. Yer’ve been keeping something from me.’ She tapped the newspaper on her knee. ‘It says here, those working in munitions received severance pay. Been spending it, have yer?’ She nodded her head in the direction of the bag Clara carried. ‘Treated yerself, have yer?’

  Clara’s annoyance spiralled. ‘If I have, it’s none of your business. I bought badly needed underwear. I more than pay my wack in this house. Now I’m going to read my letter.’ She placed her shopping on the table and snatched up the envelope from the mantelshelf.

  ‘There’s no need to get in a twist. I’d just like yer to be honest with me. I wouldn’t have been worrying about Christmas if I’d known about yer severance pay,’ said Bernie in milder tones. ‘By the way, there was a couple of bottles of your cordial and a jar of ointment in the box, as well.’

  That news pleased Clara but right then she was desperate to know whether it was Joy or Mrs Black who had written to her.