That Liverpool Girl

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I’ve made my mind up,’ came the echo.

  ‘The feeding of a child pulls at the womb,’ insisted the tiny Irishwoman. ‘You’ve been cut.’

  Eileen raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Saints preserve me,’ she muttered. ‘I know I’ve been cut, Sister Mary Dominic. My belly probably looks as if it’s been thrown together by a blind tailor – I don’t know, because I can’t see it. This milk is my children’s birthright. It’s the best thing on God’s earth for them, it’s free, and I am full of vitamins. Even a couple of weeks at the breast will help them.’

  A siren sounded. The nun took a whistle from her pocket and blew hard.

  Eileen smiled. Her twins were clearly not of a nervous disposition, since they simply lifted up their arms in response to the blast. ‘They’re not deaf,’ she said as they continued to suckle. Mary Dominic apologized. She was in charge of blackouts, and the whistle served as warning to all the other sisters.

  Keith went outside for a few minutes. He heard them long before he saw them, and he knew immediately that this show was not the same as previous incursions. Antiaircraft fire was deafening; those three miles nearer to town made a lot of difference. Incendiaries floated down in their hundreds, the resulting fires acting as beacons for the pilots above. Bombs vomiting from underbellies of Heinkels exploded all over the city; there must have been fifty or more planes. Then God’s heavens opened, and the Germans eased off. In spite of the rain, Liverpool burned.

  Inside again when the planes had gone, Keith eavesdropped at Mother Superior’s door. She was whispering to her sisters. There had been a hundred or more incidents in the city, none in Bootle, some on the Wirral. He heard the words Cazneau Street, North Market, Batty’s dairy, and the names of many other shops in the city. ‘But, as far as I can tell, we are receiving no casualties here tonight, thanks be to God,’ was Mother Benedict’s final statement. Keith’s flesh crawled. This was the start of something new.

  He cuddled his son while Eileen cooed over Helen. ‘That was noisy,’ she said, stroking her daughter’s cap of silky hair.

  ‘We’re nearer,’ Keith said.

  ‘I know we’re nearer, love. It felt different. There were a lot of them, too.’

  Each bomb they dropped was estimated to weigh an enormous amount, but Keith wasn’t going to tell his wife that, not when she’d just had surgery, not while she had six children to worry about.

  ‘Take us home,’ she ordered.

  ‘Don’t talk daft, sweetheart.’

  ‘And when they come back and kill us all? We’re only about four miles from the edge of Liverpool.’

  ‘And you’ve got stitches, and you were in theatre just a few hours ago having two babies removed.’

  ‘We’ll have more than bloody stitches if we get a direct hit. Mr Barr can see me at home, and Dr Ryan will look after me.’

  ‘No.’

  She tilted her head to one side. ‘That sounded very firm and decided.’

  ‘Because it was,’ he said. ‘Look, I know they’re fine, but they’re still slightly premature. They’ve to go back to the nursery in a minute, because they’re due for being stared at. That Sister Agatha never sleeps, or so I’m told. I hear she doesn’t even blink in case she misses something. You’ve done right by the twins so far. Just a few more days, darling. Please.’

  Eileen sniffed. He knew she melted when he used that word. Nobody in Scotland Road ever said it; darling was for film stars. And for her, of course. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But don’t go blaming me if we’re all killed.’

  ‘I won’t.’ He returned to the task of examining his son’s hands. They had dimples instead of knuckles, but Frankie had a hell of a grip for a newborn. ‘He’ll be good for the tug of war team.’

  Eileen snorted. She had married a madman.

  FRIDAY

  My dear Aunt Hilda,

  Your adopted niece is under the caged kitchen table with mattress, pillow, blankets and Spoodle, so please excuse the untidy writing. I am rather squashed, and Miss Morrison’s precious Victorian writing slope doesn’t quite fit at a decent angle in my small shelter, so I can only hope that this letter is legible. The dog is no help. Chewing the end of the pen while I write is his idea of audience participation, but what can I do? I am trapped, but safe, I hope.

  With the head teacher’s permission, I had the morning off. Dad picked up Gran and me, and took us to Parkside. Mam is very well indeed, and calling all the shots. She clearly got back to what’s laughingly called normal in a very short space of time. My lovely stepfather is besotted with the babies – we all are. According to Mam, little Helen is the image of me, God help her. Frankie is gorgeous. When someone holds him, he cuddles into the person, and he seems not to care who picks him up. Helen is more choosy; she prefers her parents. But they are so delightful. They took me back to my childhood, because I wanted to dress them up like I did my dolls.

  Despite warnings about stitches and pain, my dearly beloved mother insists on breastfeeding. Sister Mary Dominic, nominated by Mam as the dwarf prison guard, is very funny. Under five feet in height, she buzzes around like a bee in a flower and gets under everyone’s feet and on everyone’s nerves. She stings, too, when she puts her mind to it. Dad has found the kitchen, and he has threatened to put Sister MD on the draining board or in the sluice room with all the bedpans. She giggles when he says such things. Were she not a nun, I’d swear she flirts with him.

  I tried to phone you earlier, but our lines are out of order, and I’m unsure about when we’ll be reconnected. There is no point in writing anything other than truth, so I must tell you that our city took some hard knocks last night and, as I write, it’s happening again. With my parents and the twins currently in a building a few miles nearer to Liverpool than we are, I can only worry. Germany has altered its strategy. The bombers are coming in from many directions to circle the docks and the city before dropping firebombs followed by very high explosives. Even with a full moon, they still dropped incendiaries. Three or four planes flew over this house about an hour ago. Elsie resorted to praying – even borrowed Gran’s rosary, and she isn’t a Catholic.

  My dear, sweet aunt, I know that hamlets have no churches, so please take as many people as you can to Bromley Cross, Harwood or Affetside – anywhere with a church. It doesn’t have to be Catholic. All prayers are needed now, because I fear we are ear-witnesses to a blitzkrieg, which translates as lightning war. London has already suffered this, as have other towns and cities. Pray for Liverpool, I beg you.

  Love, as always, Mel xxx

  She pushed the writing slope out of the shelter, laid herself down, cuddled Spoodle and courted sleep. But the boom of anti-aircraft guns kept her awake, as did the slight shivering of the land on which the house did its best to stand. It was like a hundred aftershocks following an earthquake; would it ever end? After four hours, the all-clear sounded.

  Sighing, Mel drifted towards sleep, Spoodle relocated at her feet. Four hours. How much damage might have been done in that time? Tomorrow would tell, tomorrow would . . . At last, she slept.

  SATURDAY 3 MAY 1941

  The terrible news drifted up the coast along with debris, ash, soot and bombed-out people looking for billets. By about noon, rumour and fact were finally becoming separable. Because of a bright full moon, incendiaries had been rather de trop except when cloud had drifted across the main source of light. Providence had clearly been on the side of the Germans last night, but the city stumbled on.

  Bootle, a village nearer than Crosby to Liverpool, had taken a hammering. Flour mills, timber yards, factories, warehouses, shops, houses and arterial roads had been eradicated. Homeless and disorientated people wandered the streets long after sunrise, some carrying a chair, a picture, a cushion – sad little bits and pieces collected from a place they had loved. They searched not only for somewhere to settle their bones, but also for family members, some of whom would never be seen again.

  Emergency services in Bootle could not get thr
ough the rubble on Southport Road, Stanley Road, Balliol and Knowsley roads. Vehicles were abandoned while teams struggled on foot to reach mounds under which people were buried. Alive or dead, when lifted out, they were covered in the crumbled debris of shelters or of the homes that had provided a lifelong refuge. Nowhere was safe any longer; no one could be certain of seeing tomorrow.

  In the city, the Dock Board building had been hit, while the White Star Shipping Line offices were badly affected by fire. The central repository of the diocese of Liverpool was in ruins, and many valuable books, tracts and records had disappeared in the flames. St Michael’s Anglican church was damaged beyond repair, as were many houses and small businesses. All day long, fires smouldered. Rescuers and clearance teams did their best, but behind every hearty word of encouragement, every slap on the back, the dread remained. Tonight would be the same. The strutting, power-crazed leaders of Germany intended to crush a proud city. Liverpool was not especially big, but it boasted the largest docks in the world, and the docks were the real target.

  But what the Luftwaffe might never see if the planes flew too quickly or too high was visible all over Liverpool on this Saturday. Cleared pavements bore painted words: HA, YOU MISSED ME, THIS SHOP IS CLOSED PENDING ALTERATIONS, HITLER BLEW UP OUR LAV, and ME MA SAYS YOU OWE HER SOME NEW TEETH AND A TEAPOT. An old Jewish man used luminous paint to execute a massive Star of David in the middle of a road on which all buildings had been flattened. ‘Mazel tov, mate,’ called a passing Irish docker. Like their Cockney cousins, this lot never gave up.

  Young lads risked life and limb to climb onto ruins already bombed, tying strips of white sheeting to bits of chimneys and gutters in the hope of drawing attention to the already destroyed. With any luck, these derelict piles might get hit again. The number 16 appeared here and there as a reminder to the enemy that this number of German bombers had been shot down last night by the RAF. Ebullient on the outside, determined to the bone, Scousers were intelligent enough to recognize the might of the enemy. But they weren’t going to run away, because this was their city. An old sailors’ tale intimated that residents of Liverpool lived with their backs to the city, their eyes on the sea. But sneak behind their backs, and one way or another they would have your blood. They had pride by the ton; they also owned an anger that was measurable on no man-made scale. And to balance all of the above, they were humorous, cheeky and quick.

  On the wireless, the clipped, correct BBC announcer spoke of damage to a northern port. Even the royal family didn’t talk as daft as that. It was like listening to a foreigner, an alien who wasn’t qualified to talk about Liverpool, about England, about the planet. Elsie blamed tight underwear. ‘They all talk as if they’ve been neutralized,’ she said. ‘Their dangly bits is squashed.’

  Nellie almost choked on her tea. ‘Do you want to go home, love?’

  Elsie bridled. ‘For one, I still haven’t seen them babies, and for two, it’s my war now. No.’ The arms continued tightly folded. ‘I’m going nowhere till Hitler’s been dealt with. Shouldn’t be difficult; they say he’s only got one dangly bit.’ She picked up a carving knife. ‘Let me at him.’

  ‘Who are we killing now?’ asked Mel as she led Spoodle into the kitchen.

  ‘Hitler.’ Elsie’s tone was fierce.

  ‘That’s all right, then. I’m posting a letter, then going to Sniggery Woods with Gloria and Pandora.’ She didn’t want to be near the river, didn’t want to look left in case she saw what she couldn’t bear to see in her city. She left the two older women to their job of putting the world to rights over a pot of tea and a rack of toast.

  Outside, an unfamiliar smell hung in the air. It was a bit like the morning after bonfire night, but heavier. Mel rushed round to St Andrew’s Road, waited while Gloria found her dog, and had a word with Dr Bingley. Yes, the twins were born, Mam was safe, and Dad was sleeping on a camp bed when he wasn’t chasing nuns. ‘At least one has fallen in love with him. He parked her in front of a statue of the Sacred Heart last night because she keeps telling Mam to stop breastfeeding.’

  ‘Because of the section?’

  Mel nodded. ‘Caesar mothers aren’t supposed to feed. She won’t listen, so we must hope for the best. But Sister Mary Dominic will carry on shouting haematoma, and Mam will carry on ignoring her. Mrs Bingley’s going to visit today with Elsie.’

  His wife would be welcome, but he couldn’t go. Keith Greenhalgh was standing, sitting or lying on guard, and Tom was the enemy. He was also tired, since Liverpool had been lively and deathly last night. The general opinion was that tonight would be the same, so he needed a rest.

  The girls walked to the woods, releasing a pair of enthusiastic dogs as soon as they reached the path leading to the trees. Two bundles of black and white curls disappeared in a trice. They loved this place, which housed squirrels, rabbits and, on occasion, Boy Scouts cooking sausages. Today, the dogs’ behaviour was different. They returned to the girls and whined, clearly asking to be followed.

  Gloria and Mel found Peter hanging from a tree, movement in his legs proclaiming him to be alive. Without a word, Mel pushed her hand into his pocket, withdrew a jack-knife, climbed upward from bough to bough and severed the thin rope with one cut while Gloria took his weight. Brother and sister crashed to earth; Mel jumped out of the tree.

  ‘Why?’ sobbed Gloria. ‘What’s the matter with you; what the hell did you think you were doing?’

  ‘Wrong rope,’ Mel scolded. ‘Washing line’s not up to the job, and part of it was up the side of your face, stupid. You couldn’t hang a picture on a nail, even with a spirit level.’ She was scared to death. She could not imagine life without Peter. But she wasn’t going to baby him – oh, no. The need to hug and comfort him had to be denied, since she could not allow him to continue in self-destructive mode.

  Gloria, shocked and terrified, stopped weeping. ‘Mel? This is serious.’

  It didn’t look serious. A very attractive boy, spread-eagled on the ground, was being drowned by two spoodles. Wagging happily, they circled him, washing his face, neck and hands, chewing on his hair and breathing heavily into his ears.

  Mel folded her arms and tapped a foot. ‘You selfish, spoilt wastrel. Your mother lives in a house filled with drugs, and she might be tempted to follow you into the hereafter when you break her heart. Your sister would be bereft, while your father, a man only just out of depression, could well slip all the way back to a mental hospital.’

  He started to cry.

  ‘Why?’ Gloria screamed again.

  Seconds ticked by. ‘Will you tell her, or shall I?’ Mel demanded. ‘Because you owe her an answer.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Gloria asked, her voice calmer.

  Peter said nothing.

  ‘Right.’ Mel sat on the stump of a lightning tree that had been struck down years earlier. ‘This isn’t the first sign of your brother’s cowardice, my friend. When we had all that kerfuffle about him and me, he was trying to be my boyfriend so that no one would guess the truth. He used me as a shield. After we’d . . . been together, he confessed all. Your twin prefers boys, and he’s too weak to stay alive and fight for his own rights and for the rights of other people like himself. I had the feeling that he might try something dramatic.’ She recalled the occasions on which she’d watched him walk away, remembered an icy hand tracing a line down her backbone.

  Gloria blinked rapidly. ‘He’s queer?’

  Mel nodded. ‘He’s terrified of jail, and I understand that. We had a plan. He, I and other open-minded people were going to change the world. But soft lad here can’t cope.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going home. I’ve had enough of him.’

  Gloria’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re leaving me here? With him? But what if he goes and . . . what am I supposed to do with him?’

  ‘He’s your bloody brother. Why the hell would I want to keep company with somebody who’s contemplating suicide? It’s a mortal sin, for a start.’

  Gloria, knowing that Mel didn’t belie
ve in mortal sin, realized that her best friend was using reverse psychology. It wasn’t a bad idea. It might not be a particularly good one either, but Gloria could think of nothing better. ‘Hang on while I get this rope, Mel. I’ll come with you.’ She gathered up Peter’s washing line.

  ‘Stop,’ Peter begged.

  ‘It speaks.’ Mel glared at him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Don’t tell them.’

  Borrowing her friend’s supposed strength, Gloria approached her twin. ‘I’m not telling anybody anything. Just thank God you made such a pig’s ear of it that your neck’s not too noticeably marked.’ Still shaking, she held her ground. ‘I’m not going to break anyone’s heart for you. Do it yourself when you’re ready.’ She began to walk away, turning after a few steps. ‘It’s not your fault, by the way. You can’t help the way you’re made.’

  He lay still. It’s not your fault. It’s the way you’re made. Females were always full of glib answers. While I’m all shit and self-pity. Why him, though? Why had he come out queer? Apart from the boy who painted lines for lawn tennis and rugby, Peter knew no one in this situation. His parents were normal, as was his sister, but . . .

  In his head, Mel spoke. You’re just a different kind of normal, she had said weeks earlier. He sat up. There was a war on, and his contribution so far had been worrying about his precious reputation, his own safety, his future, his exit from a world that could not be forced to love him. It was all me, me, me.

  Of course, she’d provided an answer to that, as well. We’re all selfish. It’s an age thing. We go spotty, disobedient and daft. But most of all, we go selfish. Oh, how he loved her. How could he— ‘Get on with it,’ he hissed between gritted teeth.

  Peter Bingley got on with it. He mounted his bike and rode the seven miles. The sky was dark with smoke. People ran when they could, walked round rubble when they had to, dug with shovels and with bare hands, every one of them searching for life below the piles, shouting, shining torches into blackness and debris.