by Annie Groves
Although she engaged the same darting movements as the silverfish Kitty had seen when she first arrived, Mona did not do much in the way of work. She seemed to use up an awful lot of energy making no progress whatsoever.
‘Don’t get comfy; he wants you to run a message,’ Rene told her.
‘I didn’t think he’d come in to cook.’
Rene put the dishes into the sink. What were these ‘messages’? Kitty wondered.
‘I’ve seen more waitresses come an’ go over the years than you’ve ’ad hot dinners.’ Mona’s voice had a note of irritated world-weariness that suggested she didn’t believe Kitty would be staying long either. She made no move to wash the crockery. Kitty set to work.
‘I’ll wash and you can dry if you like.’ Kitty noted Mona’s look of disgust.
‘I cook and run messages,’ Mona said. ‘I don’t wash dishes.’
That put me in my place, Kitty thought as she washed the greasy plates, but noted that it was she and Rene who had been doing the cooking all week.
‘I see the canteen has been washed,’ Mona said, puffing on the cigarette. ‘When I saw it when ’e took it on I thought it was only the muck holding it together.’
Rene came back in looking concerned. Leaning towards Mona, she said in a low voice, ‘He’s waiting for a delivery.’ She sounded annoyed. ‘He said the stock is running out too quick.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ Mona said defensively. ‘I didn’t eat it all!’ There was an awkward silence and the two women eyed each other like cats after the same mouse.
‘I hope ’e doesn’t think it’s me,’ Mona said before taking a long, nervous drag on her cigarette. Rene didn’t answer, Kitty noticed. She was glad she had nothing to do with whatever was going on. It did not take a genius to see that there was trouble brewing. Food shortages were already on the increase; it would be very tempting to offload a bit of sugar here and bit of bacon there. Especially if the price was right.
Rene’s deadpan expression altered when she raised her black-pencilled eyebrow. It was obvious to Kitty that she did not believe Mona, but she kept her head down. She was paid to work, not gossip.
‘The order won’t be here till tomorrow,’ Mona said. ‘I’d better go and tell him.’
‘We need supplies in here,’ Rene said. ‘The last time that fat was changed Mr Chamberlain was still in short trousers.’
Kitty shuddered, having seen the brown sludge in the fryer. She dreaded to think what the food tasted like and avoided it herself.
‘Best keep anything you hear under your hat; loose lips and all that.’ Rene nodded towards the tall cabinet near the window. ‘I wouldn’t say this to a new girl usually, but I trust you, Kitty.’ She looked at Mona before continuing, ‘Mr Cropper has an agreement with a couple of suppliers.’ She nodded her turbaned head. ‘But he gets greedy. At first it was a bit of butter here, some meat there—’
However, her revelation was cut short when Mr Cropper waddled into the room.
‘Right, let the dog see the rabbit,’ he said without preamble. ‘Rene, you are using far too much tea. Cut it by ’alf per pot.’
‘But it’s like midden water now, Mr Cropper. We’ll get lynched if it’s much weaker.’
‘You’ll manage.’ There was a warning note in his voice. ‘Knowing you lot, I’m sure you are extremely generous with supplies.’ Mr Cropper, panting now, wiped his face with a huge handkerchief before saying impatiently, ‘Get me a drink of water.’ His face was purple as a plum. Rene threw a tea towel across the kitchen and it landed on the draining board as Kitty gave the boss a cup of cold water.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Rene, ‘I’ve got pies to bake while they’re still affordable.’
‘I’ll clear these dishes,’ Kitty said. Then she heard Mr Cropper’s heavy bulk slump onto a straight-backed chair with a thud, making the legs creak. Rene’s black eyebrows met in the middle of her forehead. Kitty turned to see Mr Cropper, his head lolling forward, his chin resting on his chest. They exchanged questioning glances but nobody moved until Kitty took the tea towel and dried her hands. The other two seemed stupefied.
‘Are you all right there, Mr Cropper?’ There was a hint of panic in Rene’s voice as she edged towards him, hunching down so she could see his putty-coloured face at close range. Mr Cropper did not attempt to answer. She patted his cheek and poked his arm, but still there was no response. She looked at the other two and shrugged her shoulders.
‘What should I do? He’s spark out.’
Kitty went over and looked at the man, who did not seem that old at close quarters. She lifted his ample chins and his head flopped back. She jumped, alarmed that his staring unseeing eyes were directed at the ceiling.
‘Jesus, Mary and Frank!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s dead.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘I got a terrible fright!’ Kitty said, sitting at the table with Danny at teatime.
‘You must have something about you if you give a fella a heart attack on your first meeting,’ Danny said, tucking into his tea.
‘It’s not funny, Dan.’ Kitty was put out that he should not give the sad circumstances their due respect. ‘He wasn’t very old.’
‘I’m not laughing at the situation, Kit,’ Danny said, ‘but you must admit, five minutes after meeting you, he dropped down dead! You’d be a boon to the Government if they sent you over to meet Hitler.’
Kitty shook her head. She knew the job was too good to be true. Now presumably a new manager had to be appointed.
‘Mona went to pieces and then fainted clean away.’ Kitty’s brow wrinkled. ‘I half expected the ambulance man to cart her off too,’ she tried hard to suppress a smile, ‘but instead he shoved her head between her knees and told her to behave herself.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ Danny said.
‘You should have been there,’ Kitty scoffed. ‘She was milking it for all it was worth.’ Kitty, mimicking Mona, put the back of her hand to her brow and turned her head to the side. ‘Oh, woe …’ she wailed. ‘Then Mona had a good look round to make sure she had a soft landing and realised the chair was just out of reach,’ Kitty began to laugh, ‘so she staggered over to it like she’d been shot!’ The howling laughter around the table made the cups rattle.
‘I think he had some sort of black market racket going on. I didn’t ask questions but it was obvious they were up to something. What with all the rationing coming in.’
‘Well, where there’s a demand, some will find a way to supply,’ Danny said with a dangerous twinkle in his eye.
Kitty gave him a stern look. ‘You’d better not be up to something like that yourself, Danny Callaghan.’
‘Stop fretting, Kitty. There’s nothing to worry about.’
Kitty was serious now. ‘I hope not, you’ve been spending far too much time with that Alfie Delaney and everyone knows he’s as bent as a nine-bob note.
‘I wonder how our Tommy’s getting on,’ Kitty said, changing the subject. She knew Tommy would have been full of questions about today’s events. ‘I hope he’s behaving himself and not getting up to mischief.’ She missed her younger brother more than she ever would have realised.
Kids were gradually coming back to Liverpool from the countryside even though the Government urged mothers not to be too hasty. Kitty had been sorely tempted to bring Tommy home for Christmas, but they all knew he would never go back again afterwards so it was best that he stay in safe hands for now.
The following week Kitty was thrilled to receive a letter offering her the job as manager of the canteen. Apparently, Rene had put Kitty’s name forward after turning down the position. From dishwasher to manager in a fortnight! Maybe her luck had turned.
‘Get those greens ate, Thomas. I do not want that sister of yours complaining.’
Kitty did not complain, thought Tommy, looking miserably towards the plate of Spam and sprouts he had been given. This was the fourth time this week he had been given sprouts and Mrs Hood knew he di
dn’t like them.
‘Kitty doesn’t make me eat sprouts even when my throat isn’t sore,’ Tommy said in a croaky voice. If he tried to eat those he would do himself a mischief, he was sure. Mrs Hood made him eat everything she put in front of him, whether he liked it or not. Usually he did not like anything she cooked, and neither did her two boys, but they just piled the food they did not want onto Tommy’s plate, and he had to eat it otherwise the oldest boy, Ronald, would give him a Chinese burn by twisting his skin in both directions at once.
‘Come on, eat up.’
‘I can’t … My throat is sore … Our Kitty doesn’t make me eat when my throat is sore.’
‘Well, your Kitty isn’t here … and I’m not forking out good money because you are malingering, so eat.’
‘I can’t eat it.’ Tommy stabbed a sprout with his fork. He was close to tears now and he stared at the awful green orb with something akin to revulsion. His stomach heaved.
‘You will not get down from the table until you eat every one.’ Mrs Hood was a harsh, hostile woman who ruled her evacuee with fear. She made him go outside first thing and sweep the yard every day, rain, hail or snow, and would not let him back in until it met her exacting standards. He also had to run all of the errands, sweep all of the rooms out and clean the loft where Mr Hood kept his pigeons. If he complained she just gave him a clip round the earhole and drove him even harder. No one in his own home had ever raised a hand to him. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut normally. No wonder his throat was sore, he thought miserably. She never talked to her own boys like she spoke to him. She was sweetness and light to them. But every time she looked at Tommy she scowled, like he was something the dog dropped and she had stepped in.
‘I’ll report you to the authorities,’ Mrs Hood said between clenched teeth, and Tommy was tempted to tell her that her threat did not scare him; their Kitty was always saying she would report him to someone or other and she never did. He did not look up at Mrs Hood, in her black coat, like a vulture waiting to pounce. Instead, he kept his eyes firmly on the offending plate. Why could he not have a bit of meat and mashed potato with some of that lovely gravy, as her boys did? The only thing she gave him was Spam and vegetables, sometimes not even Spam.
Suddenly he felt a familiar tingling in the back of his throat and down his ears, his mouth filled with bitter water and he could feel his stomach lurch and heave. Without further warning the meagre contents of his stomach landed on the scrubbed linoleum.
‘Now look what you have done. You naughty little boy!’ Mrs Hood’s angry words accompanied a barrage of stinging slaps on his bare legs. You did that on purpose,’ said Mrs Hood, dragging him up from the chair by his collar, ‘all over my nice clean floor.’
Tommy battled to suppress the tears. The lump in his throat made it ache even more. He wanted to tell her that he was very sorry and ashamed, but the words would not come. They were stuck behind the next avalanche of vomiting.
‘Oh, you wicked, wicked little boy!’ Mrs Hood looked very angry now. Turning to her children, she said, ‘Leave the table, boys.’ Her two sons scurried from the room holding their noses. Tommy could see by their downturned mouths they were not impressed.
‘You will not get away with this, boy,’ Mrs Hood said through gritted teeth. ‘Mr Hood will give you a damn good thrashing when he gets home, that’s for sure. Now get the mop and bucket and clean it up!’ She left the dining room with a flourish, slamming the door behind her. Moments later she returned. ‘I want it cleaned before I get back and I want it spotless.’ Then the front door slammed and the house was silent save for little sobs as Tommy cleaned up the mess he had made on the floor. As he did so he could feel his stomach lurching again.
‘Not again, please,’ he said aloud. Then, as the nausea subsided, he took the mop and bucket outside, and tipped the whole lot down the outside drain. Then he went up to the room he shared with the two boys. He needed to lie down.
After a few minutes, when sleep eluded him, Tommy kneeled on the bed, looking out of one of the little square windows towards Liverpool. Way past the sand dunes, he could see the frothy white horses rolling in on the rough sea to meet a leaden sky.
Was that water still the Mersey, he wondered, realising that, any other time, he would have gone to ask one of his brothers, or even Pop. However, there was nobody he could ask here. They all thought he was stupid and they took every opportunity to tell him so.
Kitty’s first job on becoming manager was cleaning the premises properly and ordering in the bug man. She and the other new NAAFI girls she had recruited did not mind pulling it apart and scrubbing it from top to bottom: walls, floors, fryers, even the cooker. It looked brand new after they had taken it to bits. Every nut, bolt and screw, every pipe and burner. Everything was soaked overnight in a solution of caustic soda that could strip the skin from your bones. It brought everything up a treat when they took the parts out of the galvanised bin.
‘You’ve done a great job, Kitty.’ Mrs Cook, a jolly woman in her late forties, stood back to survey their handiwork.
It did not take long for Kitty to get into the swing of things and she had to admit that it was much better working with women who knew what they were doing. She thrilled at the compliments her baking brought and she could not be happier.
‘We’re running like the Adelphi Hotel kitchen,’ she laughed. It looked like things were on the up now.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
December 1939
‘It is perishing cold out there,’ Dolly said, bringing in the milk, obviously frozen, judging by the half-inch of ice popping out of the bottle tops. ‘I can’t remember when it was so cold.’
‘The papers say it’s a worldwide chill, and it’s stopping essential supplies getting through,’ said Pop.
‘Sid mentioned that in his last letter,’ Nancy said, taking it out of her handbag. ‘He says that it has been so cold the ground is frozen and they can’t dig in.’
‘Must be bad if soldiers can’t even dig trenches,’ said Pop, pouring fresh tea into three cups.
‘He said men who have been in France since September were allowed to go home to spend Christmas with their families,’ Nancy said sullenly. ‘He missed it by a few weeks and it feels like he has been gone for years.’
‘I know exactly how you feel, love,’ Dolly answered, recalling the Great War, when Pop had to leave her alone and pregnant with Frank. ‘But he will get home as soon as he can.’
‘Did I tell you Sid’s mother fell off the kerb in the blackout and has to have a walking stick?’ Nancy asked. She and Sid’s mother did not get on so Nancy came around to her mother’s house early every morning. Dolly was delighted as she liked nothing more than looking after her family. ‘It isn’t broken but very badly sprained, the doctor said.’
‘I’ve heard of so many accidents since the blackout,’ Dolly said, ‘and you can’t get a battery for love nor money.’
‘When I went into the chandler’s he said I had to buy a whole torch,’ Pop answered. ‘I said to him, “Look, mate, I’m ARP. It’s your duty not to make money on those in need.” He told me he was in need as well. It looks like we’re all in the same boat.’
‘I thought our Rita would be here by now. I’m taking her out to Freshfield on the cart, to see the children.’
‘Oh, Pop, I forgot to tell you, Jack Callaghan’s getting a lift back to the air force base at Acklington and his friend said he’d take a detour for Rita.’
‘Tell her I’ll go and pick her up after she’s had a few hours with the kids,’ Pop said.
‘I asked Kitty to call over at tea time,’ said Dolly, sitting down to a piece of toast. ‘She’s made us a lovely Christmas cake and some bun loaf – she started work in the NAAFI on the dock road a few weeks ago, Nancy.’
‘Has she heard from Tommy?’ Pop knew Kitty felt guilty for sending Tommy away.
‘He’s been complaining in his letters home, doesn’t seem to like the family he’s with. Keeps sa
ying he doesn’t like Spam and sprouts!’ Dolly replied. ‘Kitty is worried. She wants to bring him back home.’
‘Do you think he’s just trying it on?’ Pop scratched his chin. ‘You know what a young rascal he can be, Doll.’
‘I couldn’t say, Pop, all I do know is this: not one single bomb has dropped anywhere near Empire Street. I’d be on the next train out to fetch him back.’
‘You always did have a soft spot for the lad,’ said Pop smiling. If he had his way he’d go and fetch him too.
Rita, dressed in her best, heavy woollen coat, was tying a scarf around her throat, which was still showing some bruising from her husband’s attack. Charlie had made himself scarce since then and Rita, who hardly saw anything of him, was glad. When she had seen him on the landing, her arms were full of her clothing, which she was transporting to the chest of drawers in Megan’s room.
‘Rita, how long are you going to keep this up? Every marriage has its little disagreements.’
Rita’s voice was coldly efficient. ‘Hear this: Charlie, you will never lay your hands on me again.’ She continued along the landing and, stepping down to the back bedroom, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her heart beating so strongly she could feel it in her throat as relief flooded through her. She would not be held responsible for what she would do if Charlie tried to touch her, even benignly, ever again.
Rita was relieved that there was no awkwardness between her and Jack. In fact, she felt closer to him than she had ever done. It was a dangerous way to feel, but after Charlie’s behaviour, Rita felt reckless.