by Lyn Andrews
He scanned the grey horizon with the binoculars but saw nothing but the vastness of the cold ocean. He had thought about her on that trip for the first time in years. And for the first time he had wondered about Shelagh Cleary and the truth of her allegations. He had been so furious, so hurt by Cat’s lies that he had never bothered to check them out, yet there were so many things about her he couldn’t forget. His friendship with Brian Rothwell had come to an abrupt end for Brian had waylaid him and called him a ‘coward, a cad, a bastard’. He had liked Brian and Marie and Marie’s obvious closeness to Cat had sown the seeds of doubt in his mind. But he had never pursued any enquiries. He still smarted from the accusations she had flung at him. Tied to his mother’s apron strings! Afraid to even express an opinion! Deep down he knew she was right, but that only made him more determined to try to forget her.
He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his duffle coat. He was cold and tired and his eyes burned. By now he knew Cat’s baby would have been born. She hadn’t lied about that, Brian had told him. His baby. His child. Or was it? He thought he heard Shelagh Cleary’s mocking, raucous laughter, or was it just the wind? Was it a boy or a girl? What had she said, she would make sure it grew up hating its father? What did it matter now? He looked at his watch. Nine fifteen. Three-quarters of an hour and he would be relieved.
He scanned the horizon again. Nothing. The edginess returned but he shook himself. It was only because they were sailing alone, he thought. Because of the Empress’s size and high speed of knots, it had been judged safe and RAF Coastal Command would meet her off the north-west coast of Ireland and they had come this far safely, via the Suez Canal and well clear of the Azores. They were carrying military personnel and their families back to Britain, 224 of them, outnumbered by a crew of 419, including himself.
He asked for their position and the voice on the intercom informed him ‘Sixty miles off the north-west coast of Ireland.’ Then he heard the drone of an engine and trained the binoculars skywards on the port side. Coastal Command at last. ‘Not before bloody time, either!’ he muttered. He followed the flight pattern then his blood froze. It was not Coastal Command! He slammed his fist down hard on the alarm button and immediately the klaxon blared out, ‘Action stations! Action stations!’ But the sound was drowned out as the first bomb exploded on the top deck, near the tennis courts. The mighty liner shuddered and he was flung to the deck. He clawed his way to his feet and looked back in horror. The whole of the midship section was ablaze. Black smoke belched up through the gaping hole that reached as far as D deck. Frantically he tried the communication system. It was dead. He turned back in time to see the plane coming directly for them, its machine guns spitting. He threw himself to the deck as bullets raked the bridge, sending showers of glass and splinters of wood flying everywhere. He felt a searing pain stab his chest and darkness began to claim him. He heard the signal faintly. ‘Abandon Ship! Abandon ship!’ but he couldn’t move. Then he was thrown violently against the superstructure amidst broken glass and instruments as another bomb found its target.
Somehow he managed to drag himself upright. Tiny, grotesque figures were running through the black, billowing smoke and wicked, leaping flames. He fought for his breath. The plane was coming back again. He could hear the vicious staccato of machine guns. They were the last sounds he heard as he slumped back onto the deck. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth, his sightless eyes staring upwards to where the enemy plane turned for home, well out of range of the stricken ship’s high-angle three-inch gun and four Lewis guns whose fire continued until it was a mere speck in the sky.
Most of the lifeboats were ablaze but Brian Rothwell helped lower one of those that was still intact. He would have expected pandemonium to have surrounded him, but there was only a queer silence. A forced calmness, broken occasionally by the sob of a terrified child. The heat was intense, the smoke choking. He looked down. God, but it had never looked so steep before! The boat was slung off its davits and plunged downward, hitting the sea, knocking him into the water. He looked up and there were tears in his eyes. The ship was doomed! She was ablaze from bow to stern! One plane! One bloody plane! Where the hell was Coastal Command?
There were people around him in the water, jumping from portholes on the lower decks, clinging to life rafts. The lifeboat was already overcrowded but there were women in the water. He shouted to four other members of the crew and without a word they all slipped overboard, joining him in the freezing water, pulling, pushing the survivors towards the boat. If he could just keep a hold on the boat, but already his fingers were becoming numbed. There was something wrong with his legs, they wouldn’t move, no matter how he tried.
They were drifting away from the stricken Empress, he was losing sight of her. He was losing all feeling in his body, the sea was claiming it. The colour of the sea and sky merged until all he could see were the tongues of flame. So near to home. So big a target. So small a plane. She was dying, dying before his eyes. The thoughts spun in his head. Everything was getting darker. ‘Must be the smoke,’ he muttered.
They pulled him aboard and tried with what little resources they could muster, to revive him. A woman, her life-jacket over her dressing gown, her hair dripping, looked at the others. She had been a nurse before her marriage. She shook her head. ‘It’s no use. He’s dead.’ The faces around her registered only blank shock. ‘I didn’t even have time to thank him,’ she murmured.
At four o’clock HMS Echo, accompanied by some trawlers picked up the survivors. The Empress was stricken but in no danger of sinking. Her mighty bulk still maintained some dignity, emphasised now by the gaping holes in her decks, her shattered rigging, the absence of her three funnels. She was taken in tow by the naval tugs Marauder and Thames who pulled her slowly towards home, towards the protection of the destroyers Highlander and Harvester. She was shattered but not destroyed.
In the early afternoon two days later, with Highlander and Harvester steaming protectively at her bow and stern, she was within thirty miles of home. No one saw the evil black snake of the periscope. No one saw the torpedoes streaking like black arrows beneath the surface of the dark waters, but they found their mark. The Great White Empress suddenly heeled over to port and disappeared beneath the sea.
Two days later the U-boat U32 was attacked and sunk by HMS Harvester. The White Empress was avenged.
Chapter Twenty
THEY HEARD ABOUT IT first from Brian’s father who telephoned. His call had been followed by a very brief one from Miss Sabell. A call Cat had taken.
In the first traumatic seconds of shock Marie didn’t cry. But then Cat fled to her room, threw herself on the bed and covered her head with the pillow, as Marie’s first hysterical screams pierced the silent house. But she couldn’t shut out the sound. She wanted to run to Marie, to try to alleviate the grief and shock. To try to answer the tortured questions Marie screamed aloud.
‘Why him! Oh, why him? Oh, Mum, why my Brian?’
But she couldn’t move. Shock had caused temporary paralysis and she didn’t cry either. Not at first.
The screams had subsided to muffled sobs and at last she found she could move. She pushed the suffocating pillow away. Her room was in darkness. The winter dusk was falling rapidly and there were no street lights to brighten it. The blackout had begun. She muttered a prayer. ‘Oh, not tonight, dear God! Please, not tonight!’ The wail of the air-raid siren was something she knew she couldn’t bear. Not tonight.
Her thoughts were confused. Her mind would focus clearly on one image for a few seconds, then it faded. Then would come a void in which there was no thought pattern at all. This was replaced by disjointed phrases, half-formed thoughts and blurred images. In these moments she heard David’s voice, felt his presence. Hollow laughter, faint music, the elusive smell of forgotten perfumes. Words and places, Petionville, Williamsburg, Colombo – all drifted in and out of her mind and she was cold. Deathly cold.
She reached out
to pull the eiderdown quilt over her and her hand knocked against the chest of drawers beside the bed. Her fingers closed over an object. She peered at it, trying to recognise it. It was a little sailor doll. Its uniform of blue velvet, its white cotton hat, replicas of the uniform Eamon wore. It was a souvenir she had bought for Hilary. Even though it was dark and she couldn’t see it clearly she didn’t need light to read the gold lettering on the black hatband. She knew it from memory. Empress of Britain. And then she cried.
The pain started deep within her, crushing her chest, burning her throat until the scalding tears dropped down on the head of the doll pressed against her cheek. She was crying for David, for Brian and Marie, for all the others – all her friends – and she was crying for the White Empress. The tears soaked into the velvet suit and smudged the painted face. She was alone. There was no one to comfort her in her grief; not even her baby for whom she had bought the ship’s little mascot. Hilary was the only tangible thing left now of the life that had ended when the great White Empress had turned her keel skywards and had died. And for once the dreaded siren was silent, all through the long hours of the night and into the cold, grey dawn.
They tried to regain some semblance of normality, despite the fact that the air-raids, which had become heavier in September and October, were adding to the increasing strain of daily life. Everyone felt as though they were walking on a razor’s edge. It was a situation that was totally alien, the underlying fear and tension sharpened by grief. Many buildings now lay in ruins or were badly damaged – The Customs House, Wallasey Town Hall, the Anglican Cathedral, Central Station – and the banshee wail of the siren was becoming increasingly familiar.
Cat found a reserve of strength hitherto unsuspected and Mrs Gorry proved to be a stronger character than she had ever imagined. Two days after the news of the loss of the Empress, she returned to work. The following week Marie went back.
‘It’s the best thing for her. It will take her mind off . . . and there are others who have lost loved ones, she won’t be alone in her loss!’ Mrs Gorry stated, firmly. ‘And there is a war on!’ It was a saying that was on everyone’s lips these days.
In the evenings, those dreaded evenings, when they would all sit waiting for the doleful wail that would send them all down the garden and into the shelter, it was obvious that Marie had lost her zest for life. She was like a martinet, her movements mechanical, her conversation stilted. Desperation filled Cat when she looked at her old friend. The happy-go-lucky girl had gone and she was afraid she would never return.
At the end of November Joe’s convoy limped back into the Mersey. Each time they returned, breathing a heartfelt prayer that they were in safe waters, he scanned the waterfront. Each time his heart was heavier. Each time there was more evidence of devastation. He wasn’t suffering the nightmare alone. He shared it with the citizens of Liverpool as they sat huddled in Anderson shelters or in the crowded, public shelters, waiting, waiting . . .
They had heard of the loss of the Empress. Half the world had by now and most of it grieved for her. After ascertaining that his own family were safe, he took the tram to Walton.
She hugged him with relief. ‘You heard?’
He nodded. ‘Brian was a decent bloke. How is she?’
‘I can’t explain it, she’s changed. I don’t think she’ll ever get over it. Something’s gone from her.’
‘And you?’
‘It’s changed us all, Joe. It’s impossible not to change. I . . . I was sorry about . . . David. Sorry about all the others, too. Sometimes I have dreams. I can see her . . . twisted, broken, burning . . . and people running.’
He shook her. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’
She steadied herself. Her finger traced the outline of the brass buttons on his uniform jacket. ‘I’m sorry. I was sorry about the City of Benares and . . .’
He looked past her. That was his own private hell. His brother and all those children!
‘Joe! Come on in! Fancy keeping him in the hall, Cat!’ Mrs Gorry’s rebuke was accompanied by a smile of genuine relief.
‘Is Eamon alright?’ she asked as they went into the kitchen.
Marie looked up and smiled. The ghost of a once-bright, animated smile.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to eat? I’ll make you something while you sit and talk to Cat,’ Mrs Gorry disappeared into the scullery.
Joe sat down.
‘How long ago did you leave Eamon?’ she asked.
‘Oh, about an hour. I went home first to see Mam. Dad is home, too. But Eamon won’t be long now, it’s nearly twenty past seven. He’s probably got a girl he wants to see.’
Mrs Gorry continued the conversation from the scullery. ‘How is your mother managing, Joe? Is she short of anything? If there’s anything I can do, you know . . .’ The rest of her words were drowned out.
Marie jumped nervously then clenched her hands tightly, the knuckles showing white. The wail rose to a crescendo and both Cat and Joe jumped to their feet.
‘Oh, blast them to hell! Here, Cat, take the kettle! Be careful it has boiled! Bernard, get those blankets! Come on, luv!’ Mrs Gorry seemed more annoyed than afraid as she caught her daughter’s hands and pulled her to her feet.
They crowded into the shelter and Mr Gorry lit the candles. At first they had tried using a Tilley stove, fired with paraffin, for heat and oil lamps for light, but the fumes from the stove had nearly choked them and the lamps had smoked, adding to the discomfort.
‘This place is always cold and damp! Here, Cat, give me the kettle!’ Mrs Gorry grumbled. Cat just stood staring at her. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Eamon!’ She started to shrug on her coat.
‘You’re not going anywhere! He’ll be alright! If he’s still at Mrs O’Dwyer’s they’ll all be in the nearest shelter now and if he was already on his way, they’ll stop the tram and get them all somewhere safe!’
‘But what if he’s walking? What if—’
‘You’re not going out, Cat!’ Joe added his voice to the argument.
Marie had started to cry softly and she allowed Joe to pull off her coat. Then she sat beside Marie, holding her hands, while Mrs Gorry made a cup of tea.
For three hours they sat and listened to the drone of the enemy planes and the shrill whistling that preceded the explosions, while Mr and Mrs Gorry and Joe tried to keep up a lively conversation. She was too worried about Eamon and too nervous either to listen or sit still for very long. She refused to join in the game of Ludo that Mrs Gorry suggested when conversation had been exhausted.
At ten o’clock the all-clear sounded. She fastened up her coat and put on her hat.
‘I’m going to look for him!’
‘Don’t be a fool, he’ll be on his way now and you’ll miss him!’ Joe argued.
‘I don’t care! It’s bad enough while he’s at sea, but now . . . if you won’t come with me I’ll go on my own!’ She was very near to tears.
‘Oh, alright!’ he conceded.
They got a tram as far as the Rotunda Music Hall, then they had to walk and she began to realise that Joe’s logic had made sense. Fires were blazing all over the city, the glowing red patches lighting up the dark sky. Fire engines and ambulances hurtled past them and the nearer to Vauxhall Road they walked the worse it got. Broken water mains flooded the roads. The stench from damaged sewers was nauseating. They had to skirt huge craters in the road, clamber over piles of bricks that a few hours ago had been houses. Streets were cordoned off because of the dangers of fractured gas pipes and partly demolished buildings. The nearer they got the more appalling were the scenes and she wished she hadn’t come at all.
‘It’s never been as bad as this!’
‘Look, Cat, you’ll have to go on by yourself! I’ve got to help, I can’t stand by while people are trapped!’
‘But what if—’
‘Go on, Cat! You’ll be alright!’ He turned and ran back, clambering over a heavy wooden beam to where the police and
wardens were starting their grim task of searching for people trapped in the rubble.
She could see the flames ahead and smell the smoke. The docks had been hit again. Then she gave a cry of relief and began to run. Eldon Street had escaped.
She hammered with her fist on the door of number eight.
Maisey opened it. ‘Cat! Gerrin ’ere! What the ’ell are yer doin’, cumin’ out?’
‘Oh, Maisey! Is everyone alright? Is Eamon here?’
‘’Course ’e is an’ we’re all fine!’
She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
‘Cum in, I was just makin’ some tea.’
She was smothered in her brother’s embrace but when the first surge of relief passed she turned on him. ‘Why didn’t you come straight home? You had me worried half to death? You should have been in the shelter with us, this . . . this is the worst raid we’ve had!’
‘Leave ’im alone, Cat, ’e was safe enough with us, we was all under the stairs!’
She was incredulous. ‘Under the stairs! Why didn’t you go to the shelter? If the house, or next door, had gone, you would all have been buried!’
‘Stairs ’as been good enough in the past! ’Ow was I ter know they would blast ’ell out of us fer bloody hours? Is it bad?’
She nodded. ‘Joe’s gone to help. It looks as though half the city has been hit, there’s fires everywhere!’
‘Bloody incendiaries,’ Eamon muttered.