Child of the Mersey

by Annie Groves

  Jack’s pal, who had to be back at Acklington airfield too, was picking up Rita. It seemed such a shame these young men were missing Christmas at home because they had to be on duty.

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if we were suddenly invaded in the middle of your Christmas pud,’ Jack said, laughing, and Rita had to agree. She wondered what her own brothers were doing right now. She did not even know where they were. It seemed so long since they were all together.

  ‘This is Giles Betterton,’ said Jack, as they climbed into the luxurious convertible sedan, although thankfully the hood was up. ‘He’s a friend of Gloria.’

  ‘Hello, Giles,’ Rita said, thankful for a lift in a motor car today. ‘Small world.’ With petrol rationing in force, it was almost impossible to drive out as far as Freshfield. However, she did not spend too long worrying about Giles’s petrol; she was far too excited. It had been eight weeks since she’d seen the children and if it had not been for returning to her nursing job she felt she would have gone mad without them. It had been a glorious day that time, and they had gone for a picnic. The children had seemed to be having a wonderful time on the farm and though it was dreadfully sad saying goodbye, Rita at least knew that her children were in good hands.

  Rita took out her small compact and flipped it open. She wanted to look her very best for them both.

  The journey seemed to take for ever although it was less than an hour away from the dockside. Rita’s foot tapped impatiently and no matter how hard she tried to stop the annoying habit she could not. Biting her lip, she wondered if the children had forgotten her.

  Her stomach suddenly growled and she could feel the hot colour of embarrassment rush to her face, but the two men in the car were far too courteous to comment, thank goodness. She had been too excited to eat breakfast and only now realised she was starving. However, Rita doubted she would be able to eat anything, even now. Moments later the car came to a halt and she saw they were by the gate of the farm where her children were staying until the threat of invasion passed.

  ‘Well, thanks for the lift,’ she said, getting out, so grateful for it on such a cold morning. Even inside the car, she could see the cloudy vapour from her lips when she breathed.

  ‘Here, let me get the presents out of the boot,’ Jack said, getting out of his side, going round and opening the boot. As he passed her the gifts, he reminded her to save the brown paper and string for the Spitfire fund.

  ‘I will,’ Rita laughed, and was secretly although pleasantly surprised when he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. It was as natural as breathing though it felt as if a hundred butterflies were fluttering around in her stomach.

  ‘Well, take care of yourself, Jack, and come back home soon,’ she said.

  ‘You can be sure of it, Rita, and remember what I said,’ Jack replied in a low voice and then, as the sound of children’s excited voices filled the country air, he laughed. ‘Here they are, all pink and shiny for Christmas.’ He took some coins out of his pocket and offered them to Michael and Megan when they had finished being hugged by their mother.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Get yourselves some sweets or a comic each.’

  A deep contented sigh escaped Jack’s lips when he saw the children skip happily away, each holding on to their mother’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Jack!’ they called back in unison. Even though they were no longer looking he lifted his hand and half waved. Their only interest now was their mother, as it should be.

  Jack wondered if that bastard Charlie Kennedy knew how lucky he was.

  ‘Bye, Rita,’ he whispered, knowing that any day now he would receive his orders and God alone knew where they would take him. ‘Look after yourself …’

  ‘Is that the River Mersey?’ Tommy asked Kenneth, the quieter of the Hood boys. He had to know. Kenneth shrugged his shoulders, just as Ronald entered the small back room and Tommy repeated the question. Ronald, not as gentle as his younger brother, threw back his head, opened his mouth and forced a laugh so false that Tommy wondered if he was having a fit.

  ‘You nincompoop,’ Ronald said in a haughty voice. The same age as Tommy, he was without a doubt, Tommy thought, much cleverer. He did not hesitate to inform Tommy of the fact every day, calling him names and ridiculing his accent. Tommy was surprised; he didn’t even know he had an accent until he came here.

  ‘That is the Irish Sea! The Mersey stops at Formby Point.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tommy said, still looking out of the window. Although prepared to be educated, he was not too fond of being called a nincompoop. If he were back at home, he would not let anybody call him names. However, he had promised Kitty he would stay out of trouble, and he was doing his best. He really was. Although, given the choice, Tommy knew he would never get sick of rearranging that smug look on his tormentor’s face.

  He wondered what Kitty was doing now. Thinking back fondly, he recalled the times he watched the ships, big and small, sailing up the Mersey. He had marvelled at their ability to slip perfectly into the dock, like that pane of glass fitted into the frame, all snug as if that was where it always should be.

  ‘Look at his silly grin,’ said Ronald. ‘Did you find that by the River Mirsey?’ He roared with laughter at his imitation of Tommy.

  ‘Funny,’ Tommy said drily, clenching his fists and praying to whomever was listening to let him keep his temper in check.

  ‘Come along, Kenneth, let’s leave him to his water gazing.’ Ronald tugged Kenneth’s sleeve and they left the room. Tommy was ever so glad they’d gone because he might have had to break his promise to Kitty to behave himself.

  That Ronald really was a trial: prefect of the class Tommy had been shoehorned into, and too full of his own importance for Tommy’s liking. Nevertheless, he thought, a promise was a promise, and Tommy intended to keep it. He didn’t want their Kitty coming all this way to apologise for him. Anyway, he thought, how long could the war last? Nothing was happening.

  The days were getting much colder now as December drew on. It would be Christmas soon and Kitty hadn’t been here for a few weeks now. Looking far out to the misty sea, he wondered when Kitty would visit. The Hoods were going carol singing later, Tommy remembered, hoping Mrs Hood wouldn’t make him go.

  He was not feeling too good this morning. His throat hurt. There was nothing unusual in that; he always suffered from wonky tonsils. But he was also feeling sick inside, he was hot all of the time and his legs ached.

  ‘Get your coat on. You are coming with us and I will hear no more about it.’ Mrs Hood was determined Tommy was going carol singing and he was equally determined he wasn’t. While her back was turned and she was organising her sons, Tommy went outside for a breath of bracing air.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said aloud, taking big gulps of seaside air. Here, chimneys puffed sedately and houses were the same colour now as the day they were built. Unlike the wonderful soot-covered buildings that belched noxious fumes, which he longed to see again.

  The buildings, like him, were rough and ready. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t fit in with the two ninnies who couldn’t climb a tree or skim a flat stone across the water. No, he belonged in Empire Street and, Tommy thought, taking a deep breath, feeling the searing pain slice his throat, he was going back there right now.

  The only thing he had in his pockets was a hole. He didn’t possess a penny piece, as Mrs Hood never gave him any of the money she was given for his billet. There was nothing for it, he thought, if he did not have his fare home he would go on foot.

  He turned left and made his first step home.

  ‘We went along to the pine woods, Mum,’ said Michael, who was now the talkative one. The outdoor life suited him, by the look of it. He had filled out and there was a rosy glow that he didn’t have back home. ‘We saw the red squirrels. They were gathering hazelnuts for the winter. Aunty Joan said they come as far as the farm some days, so I’ve been looking out for them.’

  ‘That’s love
ly, Michael,’ Rita said, thrilled he had settled, yet trying to quell the feeling of helplessness. He had called her ‘mum’ – not ‘mam’, as he usually did. Rita suddenly and inexplicably felt as if she was losing them.

  ‘And what about you, Megan, what have you done since I saw you last?’

  ‘Cried to go home,’ Megan said in a sad voice and Rita felt a stab of alarm rush through her.

  ‘I know, it is tough for all of us. I miss you both so much,’ she replied, taking her little girl in her arms. Megan’s hair seemed lighter now and she had the same glowing complexion as her brother, but there was not the same sparkle in her eyes.

  ‘You know I will bring you home just as soon as it is safe, and look,’ Rita said, pointing to the end of the lane, ‘there’s a telephone box! I will leave some pennies with Aunty Joan and the telephone number of the shop, and each night, before you go to bed, you can ring me or I can make arrangements to ring the telephone box.’ Suddenly her daughter’s face lit up. ‘I am only at the other end of that phone, my little love.’

  ‘Mrs Kennedy, how lovely to see you,’ said the round, jolly-looking woman of indeterminate age. ‘The children have talked about nothing else but your visit all week. Even Father Christmas didn’t get a look in!’ The woman the kids called ‘Aunty Joan’ laughed now. ‘Come in, come in, we’ve just come back from morning Mass. I’m just cooking breakfast. Uncle Seth is setting the table. The chickens have been fed – now it’s our turn.’

  ‘Do you want your eggs fried, poached, scrambled or boiled?’ asked Aunty Joan’s husband, Seth. Rita inhaled the tantalising aroma of freshly cooked food, and her eyes widened appreciatively when she saw the huge plate of bacon in the middle of the table alongside another heaped plate of thick toasted bread dripping in home-made butter.

  ‘Hello there, Mrs Kennedy. Come in, tuck in!’ Seth said, ladling all manner of eggs onto the plates. The children sat up to the table after washing their hands and Rita was glad to see that some things hadn’t changed.

  ‘We can hardly get bacon any more,’ Rita said. ‘We have to queue for most things now.’

  ‘I’ve heard it will be really scarce after Christmas,’ Seth said, tucking in and encouraging everybody else to do the same. ‘We’ll open our presents at Christmas.’

  Rita felt a thrill of contentment. She had thought she would burn with jealousy because another woman was raising her children. However, she could think of nobody else she would want to take care of them – except Mam and Pop, of course. The children had not once asked where their father was, either this time or on Rita’s previous visits.

  ‘You remind me so much of my own mother and father,’ Rita said, smiling, as they took a walk through the frosty fields after breakfast, taking in the cutting freshness of a winter morning.

  ‘We were not blessed with children of our own but we love them so much,’ said Joan. ‘As soon as we set eyes on Michael and Megan we knew they were for us. Michael took to country life like a duck to water, but Megan misses her mum.’ Rita watched her daughter running without a care in the world through the wide expanse of fields. ‘But I think she’s going to settle down eventually.’

  ‘I promise I will try to get here as often as my hospital shifts allow. It’s not too bad now but … if anything should …’

  ‘I know,’ said Joan, patting Rita’s hand. ‘We know how difficult it is, but hopefully Megan will be fine.’

  Rita would have felt her departure more keenly than she did, had it not been for the kind and loving nature of her children’s foster parents.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t stay for lunch?’ Michael and Megan pleaded, and Rita felt the first pull of separation. She was going to miss them even more now.

  ‘I will next time,’ she told the children, then, turning to Joan she explained, ‘I promised Mam … My brothers are somewhere in the Atlantic … She feels it with Christmas coming.’ Joan nodded and patted her shoulder and, his arm around his wife and the two children at their side, Seth waved her down the lane where she was meeting Pop near the Copper Kettle pub. The weather was closing in, and the sky was dark with the promise of snow. It had been a wonderful morning and, looking at her watch, she noticed that she was in good time for her lift. She didn’t want him hanging around all afternoon waiting for her. It would only upset the children if they saw Pop too. Seeing the children had eased her mind. They were with good people, but Rita didn’t think that she would ever have true peace of mind until Michael and Megan were back home in Empire Street – where they belonged.

  Tommy knew he was in Formby when the sound of the sea drew him to the famous wide, sandy beach, now deserted, and the sand dunes behind. The sea looked grey and sinister in the winter light. There was not a soul in sight. He was freezing cold. The short jacket he wore was the same one he’d had all year and his short trousers did nothing to keep the cold out either. The urge to sleep was very strong but Tommy knew that if he did, he might not wake for hours and then it could be dark. Even though his feet were blistered, he knew he had to carry on. He dragged himself to his feet and headed off.

  Hoping he was going the right way he came to a crossroads and noticed an old hall he’d seen on the way into Southport. ‘Stanley Hall’ was engraved in the high sandstone gateposts and Tommy’s heart sank. He was still miles away and knew he had a long way to go yet.

  ‘Here!’ An old man with a shotgun over his arm shouted to him now. ‘Come here, boy!’ Tommy felt his courage seep from him and he wondered if Mrs Hood had reported him missing. But he did not have the strength to run right now. The old man leaned down close to his face, as if Tommy would not understand what he said.

  ‘Are you all right, boy?’ he asked. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’

  Tommy could not say a word.

  ‘Stay where you are until I get back.’ With that, the old man went in the direction of a large field at the end of which was a farmhouse. Is he going to fetch help? Tommy wondered. Or is he going to fetch a policeman to take me back? There was no way he was going to risk it.

  ‘I don’t need help, thank you,’ Tommy said politely, but the man was already heading towards the farmhouse.

  Tommy picked up his feet as much as he was able to and trudged on. A couple of hundred yards down the lane, he was thrilled to see a flat-backed cart pulled by two shire horses coming his way. He hid in the hedge as it approached and then he summoned all of his strength and scrambled onto the back of it as it passed him.

  Hiding under the hessian sacks stacked at the back of the cart, he stayed there until it had gone dark. The rest had helped him feel a little less tired so, as the cart pulled into the yard of a little country pub, Tommy waited for the driver and his female companion to go inside before jumping down and making a run for it. Tommy was grateful for the ride, knowing it had cut many hours from his journey, not knowing the treacherous land through which he was clambering. Darkness had long descended, and a hoar frost was settling on the ground. His brief rest earlier was long forgotten and his feet were too cold and sore to run any longer but he limped painfully on.

  He could see the icy frost hovering in the bitterly cold air as a rolling mist covered the fields and hedgerows, giving a gothic eeriness to the land. A pheasant scooted across the dirt road almost frightening the life out of him. The black sky felt as if it was on top of him. His heart soared when he spotted a small group of cottages further up the lane. Dragging himself through yet another field, Tommy came to a T-shaped junction. Crossing the narrow main road as an Arctic wind swirled around him, he noticed a blacksmith at the nearest building, shoeing a horse. Tommy edged closer to the smithy so he could get warm but he was careful not to be seen. The thin jacket he was wearing gave little protection and he was sure he would succumb to the cold if he stopped moving for too long.

  The blacksmith stopped what he was doing and locked the double doors, blocking off the heat that came from his brazier. In the black wilderness, Tommy heard voices and managed to make his way towards
them.

  He could just make out a building called The Cabbage Inn and he wondered if he should go inside to ask for a drink of water. However, on second thoughts, he dare not. He was a runaway and the authorities would surely be looking for him by now.

  Tommy’s mind became filled with awful thoughts. What if the police found him and locked him up? Kitty would never know where he was. The bitterly cold wind cutting into him was a blessing now as he was burning up. He put his hand to his throat and was horrified to feel that his neck had swollen to what felt like twice its normal size.

  When he got to the pub doorway, little Tommy lost his nerve. The low murmur of voices inside the pub belonged to local farmers, he realised. His body began to shiver and as he looked through the window, he saw the farmers sitting around a blazing fire. It would be nice and warm by that fire, he thought. Nevertheless, he could not take the chance. If he wanted to get back to Empire Street tonight, he would have to keep moving.

  The ruts in the ploughed fields were rock hard, making his journey more hazardous, and Tommy felt the cold seep into his bones. Exhausted, he longed to lie down, curl up and go to sleep. However, the way he was feeling now, he knew if he fell asleep, he might not wake up.

  His Kitty would be at home. He needed to see her. She would know what to do about his sore throat. It was burning so badly now he could hardly swallow, and the tiny amount of saliva that he did manage to produce did nothing to wet his dry lips.

  It took him a long time to reach a place that he soon discovered was a cemetery. A rook cried in the distance and Tommy pulled up his collar and began to hurry. The swish of tree branches whispered in the night air, filling him with such fear he wanted to scream. Just as he was about to give up an owl swooped from a nearby tree, its powerful wings almost touching his head, and Tommy found the strength to run.

  Barely able to see his hand in front of his face, he dragged himself across the fields. He was hardly able to breathe now and the fresh flow of tears made him realise that his few months in Southport had turned him soft. He had never cried when he lived in Empire Street.