by Lyn Andrews
They straggled back into the house, exhausted, cold, hungry.
‘We’d better see what we can do to help,’ Mr Gorry said, dully.
‘Not before you’ve all had something to eat! Fine Christmas this is going to be!’ came the acid remark from the scullery where his wife was already busy.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Cat offered.
‘No. You’d better go and see if the O’Dwyers are alright and . . . and my Mam, if you will?’ Joe asked.
She nodded. ‘If everyone’s alright, I’ll go straight to work, that’s if there’s any work left to go to!’
It was ten times worse than the November bombings. Services had had to be brought in for miles around. Food warehouses in Dublin Street were still burning, as was the Waterloo Grain House. A huge pall of black smoke hung over the docks. The Cunard Buildings had been hit as had the dock board offices, but the devastation of houses was the worst.
Maisey and her family were shaken but she was worried about Mr O’Dwyer who had been out all night through the height of the raid. He hadn’t returned home yet, but upon hearing from Cat the extent of the bombing, she said firmly. ‘Well, I don’t reckon as ’ow we’ll be seein’ ’im until dinner time!’ She had always been of an optimistic nature.
Mrs Calligan’s home was in ruins, but she had spent the night in the shelter. Cat found her sifting through the rubble, sorting out the pitifully small hoard of belongings that were not totally ruined. She hugged her before telling her to tell Joe that thing’s weren’t too bad. After all, what were bricks and mortar compared to safety of life and limb? She’d be moving in with her sister.
Loss of home and belongings was infinitely better than the loss of a loved one, Cat thought as she retraced her steps.
She was making her way to the station: they needed all the munitions they could get now, she thought bitterly. But then she realised that she was walking away from Central Station and not towards it. She was walking through a maze of streets that were no longer streets. They had no uniformity, no familiar landmarks and then she realised where she was going.
A few weeks ago it had been a large, square house, neglected in appearance. All that remained of it now was a pile of smouldering rubble. Glass cruched under her feet. She bent down and picked up a piece of mauve satin. Men were still working, clearing the rubble. Not one house was left undamaged in the whole street. She climbed over the debris and caught the sleeve of one of the rescue team. He turned. His face was blackened with dust and sweat. Anger, hatred, frustration and pity were in his eyes.
‘Did . . . was anyone—?’ she gulped.
‘Only a few, luv. There’s a girl over there with the WVS’. He pointed to a makeshift lean-to where ladies of the WVS were trying to serve hot soup and tea.
She felt nothing as she picked her way across to it. People huddled in blankets, were talking in stilted whispers. Shock and horror on all their faces. A girl sat on the edge of the kerb. A blanket wrapped around her, a mug of soup held in her shaking hands. Under the blanket she could see a coat and a gaudy dress. She gently touched her on the shoulder.
‘Were you in there? Were you in The Barracks?’
The girl shook her head.
‘I’m looking for my sister. Shelagh Cleary . . . or O’Mara, was she in there?’ The words were sticking in her throat.
The girl nodded slowly. ‘Party . . . something about a party . . .’
She closed her eyes. Oh, Shelagh! Poor, stupid, selfish Shelagh! ‘What about the boy?’
One of the WVS ladies took her arm. ‘She’s in shock, she won’t be much help. Is there anything I can do?’
‘My sister was . . . was in . . . that.’ She pointed over her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry. They haven’t got everyone out yet.’
‘She had a little boy. He’s five, does anyone know . . .?’ She couldn’t go on. Guilt overwhelmed her. She should have made Shelagh see reason, she should have taken Sean by force!
‘I’ll have a word with the warden, he’s been here all night, poor man.’
He made his way towards her. He’d been on his feet for nearly twelve hours, the worst twelve hours of his entire life.
‘Was there a young child in . . .?’
‘There were a couple of kids, we’ve put them all over there. We’re waiting for an ambulance or a lorry.’
‘My sister—’
‘Can you identify them?’
She nodded slowly.
They were covered by a tarpaulin sheet. He lifted it and her stunned gaze swept across the row of mutilated bodies. She nodded as she felt the vomit rise in her throat. Even in such hideous death, she recognised her sister.
‘And the child?’
She fought to control herself. She had never seen him, but both Maisey and Joe had given her a good description. He wasn’t there. The pathetic, broken little bodies were those of little girls. Anger broke over her. ‘Why didn’t they send them away somewhere safe? Why?’
‘God knows, luv, I don’t! Is it one of them?’
‘No. He’s not there.’
‘He. You should have said it was a little lad, you could have been spared some of it. He’ll be at the school, they’ve taken all the children there.’
She thanked him and then turned away. Shelagh had gone. She could never hurt her again. She forgot the enmity between them. She remembered how they had played together in the dirty back streets of Dublin. Sean Cleary was her responsibility now.
The priest in charge at the school was greatly relieved that at least one of his charges had been claimed. Like the others he had been on his feet for over twelve hours and his church was in ruins.
‘Poor, helpless, innocent little souls! They’ll have to go into orphanages or be evacuated now, most of them.’
‘He’ll be safe now, Father. I’m taking him to Wales after Christmas. He’ll be well cared for.’
‘God bless you and keep you both safe! Off you go now with your aunty, young Sean!’
He looked up at her with his mother’s eyes and her heart went out to him. She took his hand. ‘We’re going home, Sean.’
At the news of Shelagh’s death they all expressed regret, but death was becoming no stranger to them now.
‘We’re still going out, Cat!’ Joe said firmly.
She had arrived home to find him waiting for her. The little boy had said nothing at all throughout the journey and stood staring around him in bewilderment. Mrs Gorry fussed over him. Gave him a bath, then wrapping him in an eiderdown quilt, sat with him on her knee in front of the fire.
‘I don’t feel as though I can cope, Joe! I’m so tired and what with Shelagh . . . it doesn’t seem right.’
‘We’re going! For a few hours you can put all this out of your mind! I’ll go and see Mam, then I’ll come back for you.’
‘She’s at your auntie’s.’
‘I know, you’ve told me three times already. Poor Mam, she loved her little house and all her stuff.’
‘She said it didn’t matter. It was only bricks and mortar.’
‘She was always one to put a brave face on things. Be ready, I’ll have to try and brush up my uniform. It’s all I’ve got now, everything else was in the house.’
She was glad she had come. A light-hearted atmosphere pervaded the theatre and her spirits lifted. The place was packed. She settled into her seat and Joe produced a bag containing half a dozen barley-sugar sticks. ‘Everything you need for a good night out!’
She smiled. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘Never mind! Just eat them!’
‘Shouldn’t I share them out?’
‘No, I saved them for you!’ he rebuked her. He didn’t mention the fact that they were part of his survival rations.
Just as the curtain rose to the slightly discordant fanfare from the orchestra pit, the sirens sounded. She froze.
‘Oh, sod off, Fritz! Gizza break, it’s bloody Christmas!’ someone yelled from behind her. Everyone cheered. Joe s
queezed her hand and she managed a weak smile.
The show went on, despite the fact that often the music couldn’t be heard at all and the spotlights flickered on and off, the chandeliers suspended from the ceiling swayed dangerously, but the audience was in a defiantly cheerful mood and everyone cheered and clapped loudly. She couldn’t concentrate, she could feel the underlying fear. She was tense and nervous and half rose from her seat with each explosion, but Joe’s arm around her shoulders restrained her.
At about ten o’clock a massive explosion rocked the building. Plaster flaked from the ceiling, the stage lights dimmed and a silence descended. Then the rumour buzzed around that St George’s Hall had been hit and was on fire. There was no panic. People rose unhurriedly and made their way out into the foyer, spilling on to the pavement under the canopy.
She clung tightly to Joe’s arm and his arm around her waist pressed her closer to him. They gazed upwards. The beams of the searchlights that swept the sky picked out the sinister outlines of the enemy bombers, still overhead. It was as bright as day, for the whole of Lime Street as far as William Brown Street was illuminated by the flames, and the heat was intense. Flames were rushing and roaring from the long roof of the beautiful, colonnaded building opposite. The huge, bronze lions that guarded the plateau where the Punch and Judy show took place every Sunday appeared to be glaring their defiance. An ineffectual gesture not convincing enough to maintain the morale of the stunned spectators, many of whom wept openly. Liverpool’s greatest architectural treasure was being destroyed before their eyes. The Assize Courts were burning fiercely out of control, thousands of legal records adding fuel to the conflagration. She buried her face against his shoulder, unable to bear the sight, oblivious of the bombers still overhead and the sound of the anti-aircraft guns that valiantly fought to repel the raiders.
‘I’ve paid me money an’ ’itler an’ his bloody firework display ain’t goin’ ter ruin me night!’ came a voice from the crowd. Someone else shouted. ‘Good on yer, lad!’
People started to move, not away from the theatre but back inside. She looked up at Joe. A grim, determined smile twisted his lips.
‘We’re going to stay until the end like everyone else!’ he said as he led her back into the theatre.
St George’s Hall survived but Mill Road Infirmary, the Gaiety Theatre, St Anthony’s School, Crescent Church and St Alphonsus’s Church did not. They were among the hundreds of buildings destroyed that night.
It was after 4 a.m. when they got back. The all-clear hadn’t sounded until 3.30 a.m. The house was in darkness and even though it was late, she insisted Joe come in for a hot drink before starting the long trek back to his aunt’s house in Anfield.
Eamon was sitting in the darkened kitchen. Cigarette butts littered the hearth where the embers of the fire still glowed.
‘Why are you sitting in the dark? It’s over. Why aren’t you in bed?’
He rose as she switched on the light, thankful the electricity supply hadn’t been affected. He looked worn out and so old, she thought.
‘Pa’s dead, Cat!’
She swayed, catching hold of the table for support.
‘Cat . . .?’ Joe’s hand closed over hers.
‘I’m . . . alright.’
‘When? Where?’ It was Joe who voiced her questions.
‘Tonight. He was with Mr O’Dwyer when St Alphonsus’s got it! Mr O’Dwyer’s gone, too.’
She groaned. ‘Poor Maisey!’ Her head was swimming. First Shelagh and now . . . Oh, she’d never had much time for either of them but she’d never foreseen anything like this!
‘At least he died better than he lived!’ Eamon’s voice cracked with grief and bitterness.
‘That’s enough!’ Joe said quietly. ‘You’ve had a rotten day, Cat, go and try to get some sleep, we’ll sort everything out tomorrow. Eamon and I.’
‘Maisey—’ she said tiredly.
‘We’ll see Maisey, too. Get to bed now!’
As she climbed the stairs, clinging to the bannister rail for support, she wondered about tomorrow and all the tomorrows to come. Would it never end? It would be a bleak and bitter Christmas.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE LATE APRIL SUNLIGHT streamed in through the windows of the bus. The trees were just about to burst into bud and bright splashes of yellow daffodils could be glimpsed in cottage gardens. She had longed to stay in Henllan. The tiny village was so tranquil beneath spring skies; so restful after the mayhem created by the dreaded Luftwaffe. She had wanted to linger there, to nurse her baby, to play with her. To push Hilary in her pram along the narrow lanes where the hedgerows were bursting with new life and only birdsong filled the air. To smile as she watched Sean, his cheeks glowing with health, run ahead to ’explore’ and bring back his ‘treasures’ to show her, then to be presented with measured care and grubby hands to his small cousin, who would immediately try to cram them into her mouth. For three whole days she had found an oasis of happiness, devoid of fear and anxiety.
Sean had settled down far better than she had anticipated. After those first two days of dejected bewilderment, he had erupted into a tiny whirlwind that had totally disrupted the household. He threw screaming tantrums when he would bite and kick anyone who tried to go near him. He hurled anything that was within reach and destroyed the books and toys bought for him for Christmas. The tantrums were followed by bouts of sobbing when he had pleaded to ‘go home to me Mam’. He was totally unconvinced by their explanations about his mother having gone to live with God and the Angels. He had stamped his feet, his small, pale face contorted and had yelled that he ‘hated that God an’ them Angels!’. He took to bedwetting and sleepwalking, which caused further anxiety and disruption.
Strangely it had been to Marie that he had gradually turned, placing in her the trust he denied to everyone else. She, in turn, had shown infinite patience; a quality her mother remarked that had never been one of her stronger characteristics. A bond had developed between them and she had wondered if they both sensed each other’s loss and loneliness. It had been Marie who had persuaded him to go to Wales and it had been Marie who took him the first time and stayed with him for over a week.
Her stay had been prolonged, providentially, by the severe weather, for it had been one of the worst winters for years. Heavy frost had covered the countryside. The rivers and streams were frozen into ribbons of silver that laced the niveous meadows. In the city the water in the pipes had frozen. Then a blanket of thick snow disguised the ugly scars of the Christmas raids. It also made transportation of any kind dangerous. Over Christmas and in the early months of the New Year of 1941 the raids had been sporadic and never as heavy as those two dreadful nights in December.
She closed her eyes and let the sun, through the glass, warm her cheeks. Oh, she had missed her baby so much. Hilary was thirteen months old now. She had David’s blue eyes but the wispy curls were the same colour as her own. When she lay asleep in her cot, her chubby arms flung wide, Cat would bend and kiss her and then it hurt so much, knowing she would have to leave her. Knowing she was missing all the little things that meant so much and could never be recaptured. The first tooth, the first step, the first recognisable word. But Hilary’s safety was paramount.
The bus jerked and juddered and she opened her eyes. The fields were giving way to suburbs and the pace of the vehicle slowed as the driver negotiated the hastily repaired roads. She sighed. So short a distance – so few miles – and yet it was as if she had been transported into another world. ‘Cheer up, Cat Cleary, tomorrow is the first of May and Joe and Eamon will be home on the third, God willing!’ The O’Dwyers were managing, as were the Gorrys and Marie had started to go out socially again. Richard Hocking was older than both of them, but he worked in the same building as Marie and she had accepted his invitation to a concert at the Philharmonic Hall. All in all, she had a lot to be thankful for, she thought, as the bus slowly moved through the fissured roads to its terminus.
She
had quickly slipped back into the routine of work when she returned to Kirkby the following day. She was the last one home.
‘Oh, am I the last one in? Sorry, I dawdled.’ She grimaced. ‘I hate that place! It’s not until you get away for a few days that you realise just how dreary it is! And if Nancy goes on any more about how she is altering her entire wardrobe, as explained in her mother’s magazines, I’ll scream! She’s so empty-headed!’ She sat down at the table. ‘You look nice, are you going out?’ she questioned Marie.
Marie nodded.
‘Another concert?’
‘No, the cinema.’
Cat and Mrs Gorry exchanged glances.
‘And when are we going to get the pleasure of meeting . . . Oh, no! Here we go again!’
The sound of the air-raid siren was commonplace now. There was no panic. No hasty grabbing of kettles and dishes and blankets and bumping into each other in the process. Mrs Gorry now kept blankets, matches, candles, two biscuit tins packed with whatever was available, and a Thermos flask of tea, all in a pile near the scullery door.
‘Oh, well, it will have to be the cinema tomorrow night!’ Marie sighed.
The raid was comparatively light but on the following night Marie had to cancel her date again and it was becoming obvious that their respite was over. As the hours passed the old fears returned. She threw down the dress she was stitching by hand for Hilary, made from one of her cotton petticoats. She couldn’t concentrate and had jabbed her finger with the needle. She sucked it then cursed herself, seeing a tiny bloodspot on the dress. Mrs Gorry stoically continued sewing the first pair of mittens cut from the piece of sheepskin that Cat had begged from Mrs Roberts on her trip.