EG01 - When One Door Closes

by Joan Jonker

  When One Door

  Closes

  Joan Jonker

  Copyright © 1991 Joan Jonker

  The right of Joan Jonker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 9193 6

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Joan Jonker

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Joan Jonker was born and bred in Liverpool. Her childhood was a time of love and laughter with her two sisters, a brother, a caring but gambling father and an indomitable mother who was always getting them out of scrapes. Then came the Second World War when she met and fell in love with her husband, Tony. For twenty-three years, Joan campaigned tirelessly on behalf of victims of violence, and it was during this time that she turned to writing fiction. Sadly, after a brave battle against illness, Joan died in February 2006. Her best-selling Liverpool sagas will continue to enthral readers throughout the world.

  Joan Jonker’s previous novels, several of which feature the unforgettable duo Molly and Nellie, have won millions of adoring fans:

  ‘Wonderful … the characters are so real I feel I am there in Liverpool with them’ Athena Tooze, Brooklyn, New York

  ‘I enjoy your books for they bring back memories of my younger days’ Frances Hassett, Brixham, Devon

  ‘Thanks for all the good reads’ Phyllis Portock, Walsall

  ‘I love your books, Joan, they bring back such happy memories’ J. Mullett, Lancashire

  ‘I’m an ardent fan, Joan, an avid reader of your books. As an old Liverpudlian, I appreciate the humour. Thank you for so many happy hours’ Mrs L. Broomhead, Liverpool

  Also by Joan Jonker

  When One Door Closes

  Man Of The House

  Home Is Where The Heart Is

  The Pride Of Polly Perkins

  Sadie Was A Lady

  Walking My Baby Back Home

  Try A Little Tenderness

  Stay As Sweet As You Are

  Dream A Little Dream

  Many A Tear Has To Fall

  Taking A Chance On Love

  Strolling With The One I Love

  When Wishes Come True

  The Girl From Number 22

  One Rainy Day

  Featuring Molly Bennett and Nellie McDonough

  Stay In Your Own Back Yard

  Last Tram To Lime Street

  Sweet Rosie O’Grady

  Down Our Street

  After The Dance Is Over

  The Sunshine Of Your Smile

  Three Little Words

  I’ll Be Your Sweetheart

  Non-fiction

  Victims Of Violence

  To my dear husband for his understanding during my writing, also to Mary Johnson whose wonderful help and patience helped me to put commas and full stops in the right places.

  Chapter One

  Mary bent her head against the wind and wrapped her edge to edge coat more closely round her slim body. It was more like winter than spring, and her feet moved faster as she thought of the hot cup of tea waiting for her at home. And with a bit of luck her mam might have scrounged enough coal together to have a fire lit. How she hated this two to ten shift. Life was all bed and work.

  It was pitch dark as Mary hurried along the maze of streets with their two-up-two-down houses, and her high heels tapping the paving stones were the only sound breaking the stillness. In rhythm with her feet her long blonde curls bounced up and down on her shoulders. A gust of wind blew strands of hair across her face and as Mary brushed it aside the strap of her gas mask fell from her shoulder. Blasted gas mask, she muttered, pulling it back. I wish me mam wouldn’t make me take it everywhere with me.

  There were no street lights burning, nor were there any chinks of light through the drawn curtains of the houses. But Mary knew these streets like the back of her hand and could have walked home from the bus stop blindfolded. It was May 1941, and by now everyone was used to the blackout, the rationing and the wail of the air-raid siren. That was the one thing Mary dreaded most … the wail of the air-raid warning. Liverpool had been getting a hammering from the German bombers every night for weeks, but thank God none of the bombs had dropped near where she lived.

  I hope there’s no raid tonight, Mary thought, as her long slim legs covered the ground quickly. I’m so tired I don’t think I’d even hear the siren. A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. Not that me mam would let me sleep through it. She’d drag me out of bed if she had to.

  Reaching the small terraced house, Mary let herself into the tiny hall. She was closing the door behind her when a frown creased her forehead and her head cocked to one side. Voices? No, everywhere was quiet. It must have been next door’s wireless she heard.

  Walking in from the darkness, Mary was blinded for a few seconds until her eyes became accustomed to the glare from the electric light. Then she smiled when she saw her mother sitting in her armchair at the side of the grate where a fire burned brightly. ‘Oh, Mam, that fire looks lovely! It’s so cold …’ Mary had turned to close the door when she saw the soldier sitting on the opposite side of the hearth. Her mouth gaped. ‘Bob! When did you get home?’

  ‘A few hours ago.’ Bob’s grin was wide. ‘You should see your face! You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!’

  Without taking her eyes from him, Mary slipped out of her coat and threw it over the back of a chair. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’ Bob’s eyes held hers briefly, then looked away. ‘How about making that cup of tea, Mrs B? I don’t half miss your tea when I’m away.’

  ‘Never mind the tea!’ Mary frowned. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home?’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Martha Bradshaw rose, smoothing down the front of her floral pinny. She smiled at her daughter. ‘You must be dying for a drink.’ With her snow-white hair, Martha looked much older than her forty-six
years. The deep lines etched on her forehead and the sadness in her faded blue eyes told their story of suffering and heartache. It was hard to believe that only eight years ago Martha Bradshaw’s hair had been the same golden blonde as Mary’s. That the eyes had been the same vivid blue, and her pretty face had never been far from a smile. Her world had been so happy then, with a husband she adored and a daughter they both idolised. When George had come home from work one day saying he didn’t feel well, Martha had no idea it was the beginning of the end of her perfect world. She had nursed him for twelve desperate, nightmare months, before he died of TB at the age of thirty-eight. Within weeks Martha’s hair had turned white. During those first weeks all she had wanted to do was die herself. But it was Mary who made her carry on, and who kept her sane. Mary, who at fourteen couldn’t understand why her dad had been taken from them, needed all the love Martha could give. They had clung to one another then, and the strong bond between mother and daughter had never weakened.

  On her way to the kitchen Martha laid her hand on Bob’s shoulder. ‘I’m making some toast, son, d’you want some?’

  ‘What do you think, Mrs B? Have you ever known me to refuse anything except blows?’

  As soon as the kitchen door closed, Mary knelt in front of Bob. ‘What’s going on? I know there’s something up by me mam’s face.’

  Bob West stared down at his clasped hands. ‘I’m on a twenty-four-hour pass, love, and I couldn’t let you know because I didn’t know meself until the very last minute.’ He rubbed his thumb gently over her slim fingers. ‘I’ve got to go back on the six o’clock train from Lime Street.’

  ‘But it’s time to go back before you get here!’

  ‘Our unit’s on stand-by,’ Bob said softly. ‘We’re being shipped out soon.’

  ‘Shipped out!’ Mary’s voice rose. ‘Shipped out where?’

  ‘I don’t know, love! They don’t tell us anything.’ There was no mirth in Bob’s laugh. ‘Being a poor private, I’m not in on the secret.’

  Mary shivered. ‘You’re not going where the fighting is, are you?’

  Bob stroked her face. ‘You look pale tonight.’

  ‘You mean I look a sight!’ Mary suddenly grinned. ‘If I’d known you were going to be here, I’d have combed me hair and put some lippy on.’

  Bob fingered the golden hair before cupping her face between his hands and kissing her gently on the forehead. Seeing them together for the first time a stranger could easily take them for brother and sister. Their hair was the same blond colour and their eyes the same vivid blue. But while Bob’s face was square and rugged, Mary’s was heart shaped. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful. Her wide eyes were fringed with thick black lashes beneath perfectly arched eyebrows that needed no help from tweezers or eyebrow pencils. Her skin was flawless, and when she smiled she revealed a set of small, white, even teeth. While Bob was tall, over six foot, and thick set, Mary was five foot four and slim. She had a tiny waist that Bob could span with his hands, and a firm full bust. Every time he looked at her, Bob told himself he was the luckiest bloke alive that she’d chosen him when she could have had her pick of any of the lads in the neighbourhood.

  Mary drew his hands from her face and held them tight. ‘They can’t just give you twenty-four hours embarkation leave … it’s not fair!’

  ‘Nothing is fair in war, love.’ Bob sighed. ‘All I know is there’s a lot of activity at the camp, and over the last few days several units have been shipped out.’

  ‘And when the war started everyone said it wouldn’t last long.’ Mary dropped her gaze. She felt frightened inside. What would she do if anything happened to Bob? She couldn’t imagine life without him because he’d been part of it for so long. His family only lived a few streets away and they’d played together as kids. They’d started school the same day, and left the same day to take up jobs locally. Mary had gone to work behind the counter in a sweet shop, while Bob started as an apprentice with a furniture manufacturer. They’d each had their own friends but would meet at dances at Barlows Lane or the Aintree Institute. One night Bob had asked her for the last waltz and as they were dancing he’d asked if he could walk her home. As they stood outside her house he’d suddenly bent forward and kissed her on the cheek before hurrying away, red faced with embarrassment. He’d been shy the next time they’d met, but when Mary treated him as she’d always done, he became bold and asked if he could take her home. That night his lips had brushed past her cheeks and landed, for a second, on her lips. Neither had spoken, but, as Bob walked away and Mary opened her front door, they both knew their relationship had changed. And a week later they started to date without their friends.

  The kitchen door was pushed open and Martha bustled in. ‘I’ve made enough toast for both of you, so eat it before it gets cold.’ She smiled at Bob as she set the tray down. ‘No sugar I’m afraid, son! We’ve used all our ration till next week.’ Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, she looked at Mary. ‘I’m off to bed, I’m dead beat.’

  ‘It’s not that late, Mam!’ Mary jumped up. ‘Have a cup of tea first.’

  ‘No, I really am tired.’ After patting her daughter’s arm, Martha turned to Bob. ‘I won’t see you before you leave, then?’

  ‘Afraid not, Mrs B, I’ve got to be on that six o’clock train.’ Seeing the concern on the face of the woman who was like a second mother to him, Bob joked. ‘Can’t have them thinking I’ve gone AWOL, can we?’

  Martha ruffled his hair. ‘Look after yourself.’ She gave a last smile before closing the door and mounting the narrow stairs. Twenty-two years of age and being sent off to war … it just wasn’t right! By God, that Hitler had a lot to answer for! She stopped on the top stair to catch her breath and sighed deeply. Surely there was enough sadness in the world without people fighting each other.

  Mary stacked the dishes on the wooden draining board. Any other night she would have rinsed them through, but every second she could spend with Bob was precious. He was sitting on the floor in front of the fire when she ran back in the room, his back leaning against the couch. ‘Put the light out, love. It’s nice sitting in the firelight.’ He waited till Mary was nestled beside him then slipped an arm across her shoulders. ‘Now, let’s have all your news.’

  ‘Oh, I lead a very exciting life, and I don’t think!’ Mary pulled a face. ‘Unless you call sitting in next door’s air-raid shelter every night exciting.’ She snuggled closer. ‘Tell me what you do with yourself.’

  ‘Go for a pint with me mates. There’s quite a few lads from Liverpool in our unit, and we have a good laugh.’ Bob squeezed her shoulder. ‘That Spud Murphy from the Dingle is a real case; he’s always playing jokes on people and there’s never a dull moment when he’s around.’

  ‘You’ve got a flamin’ cheek, Bob West!’ Mary dug him in the ribs. ‘Going out every night and getting blotto, while I’m stuck in work or in next door’s shelter!’

  It was cosy sitting in front of the fire holding hands, but as the minutes ticked by Mary could feel the nerves in her tummy tightening. ‘I wonder when we’ll be able to take the ferry across the Mersey again? Remember when we used to go to Seacombe and walk from there to New Brighton? We had some good times, didn’t we?’ There was a sob in Mary’s voice. ‘Are you sure you’re being sent overseas? Perhaps you’re just moving to another camp.’

  ‘No such luck, love! This is one of the camps where units are shipped out from. I knew as soon as we were sent there that it wouldn’t be long before we were on the move.’ Bob was silent for a few seconds. ‘You can understand all the secrecy though, because if they told us where and when we were going, they might just as well tell the Germans and they could have their subs ready and waiting to pick us off.’ He felt Mary’s shiver. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Mary Bradshaw! You won’t get rid of me that easy. I’ll be home before you know it, and I intend marrying you quick, before someone else snaps you up.’

  ‘You better had!’ Mary was running her finger
s through his thick, coarse hair. ‘I’ve started me bottom drawer already. I went to Paddy’s market with Eileen last week and bought a tea set and some towels.’ Giving his hair a gentle pull, she laughed. ‘You should see the spivs down there. They look like gangsters with their trilby hats and long overcoats. I don’t know where they get the stuff from, but you can get anything from them if you’ve got the money. They’re making a packet out of the war.’

  Bob took his arm from her shoulders to light a cigarette and Mary stared at the dying coals in the grate. He’ll be going soon, she thought, and God knows when I’ll see him again. When he’d first been called up he’d been stationed at Speke, which was only a few miles away, and he’d been able to get home a few times a week. Even when he was sent down South he’d been home every few weeks on leave. But now he was going overseas the war took on a new meaning to Mary. She’d seen pictures of the fighting on the Pathe News at the pictures, and the thought of Bob being in the thick of it terrified her.

  Overwhelmed with emotion, Mary pulled Bob’s face down to hers and rained kisses on it. Suddenly they were locked in each other’s arms, straining to get as close as they could. ‘I love you, Mary Bradshaw,’ Bob whispered as he flicked his cigarette into the grate before easing her backwards until she was lying on the floor wrapped in his arms. He caressed her face and neck, and when his hand brushed accidentally against her breast a tingle, almost like an electric shock, ran through his body and passion raged high within him. What would he do if she met someone else while he was away? He looked down at the lovely face, the thick dark eyelashes fanning her cheeks, and his love for her overpowered him. His lips came down hard on hers as he moved sideways to tear at the buttons on his trousers. The coarse material of his uniform and his awkward position made it difficult and he pulled frantically, almost ripping the buttons off. It was as the last button gave way that a bomb seemed to explode in his head, clearing his mind. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ he whispered. He thought of her mother asleep upstairs, trusting him not to do anything to harm her daughter, and shame flooded his body. He mustn’t betray that trust. He bent to kiss Mary gently, but the second their lips met his love and his need surged like a tidal wave, and Martha was forgotten.