by June Francis
On leaving the bus, the conductor pointed her in the direction she should go. Fortunately she was not alone and followed in the wake of several other people along a cobbled lane. A large red-brick building loomed up on her left but she could see only a few yards ahead. The fog appeared to be getting thicker. Perhaps she should turn right round and go back into the city centre. What if she really did get lost?
Eventually she came to the end of the lane and was faced with a road going in two directions as well as another road that forked off the main one. She stood for several minutes, filled with indecision. Then she saw a woman, wearing a mackintosh and a headscarf, come out of a street and hurry in her direction.
‘Is this Whitefield Road?’ called Emma.
‘What’s that you’re saying, girl?’
Emma repeated the question and the woman nodded. Then she disappeared into the fog. Emma crossed the slippery cobbles to the other side of the road, where she noticed a pub and a shop next to an open space and then a street called Rothwell Street. She crossed to the other side of it and walked along the pavement, peering at numbers above shop doors that were firmly closed against the weather. At least she appeared to be going in the right direction if the numbers were anything to go by, she thought. She passed a couple more streets, called Harewood and St Albans, and came to a row of long gardens with walls and gateposts but no gates. She could see what she assumed were houses looming through the fog.
Emma’s heart lifted as she came to the number on Lizzie Booth’s letter. She walked between gateposts and up a path that was uneven and slippery underfoot. The next moment she went flying and all the breath was knocked out of her. She lay gasping, unable to move. Then she tried to get to her feet, only to almost faint because of the pain in her foot and ankle. Emma waited until the world steadied before looking to see what had caused her fall. She noticed that the path was broken in places and moss and tufts of dead-looking grass had taken root in the cracks.
Now she was closer to the house, she could see that the front door was boarded up and so was the ground floor window. She could have screamed after coming all this way to discover that the house was derelict. She tried to get up again but the pain was so bad that she sank to the ground once more, unable to put her weight on her foot. Now she really did have a reason to panic. Were people living in the other houses? Would they hear her if she cried out? Of course, there were shops nearby but they were definitely too far away to hear her shout for help. Yet surely someone was bound to pass this way sooner or later, so she should try. This she did, but the fog seemed to simply swallow up the sound of her voice and no one came.
She was really beginning to panic now because she could feel the damp seeping through her clothing. She must try and get up. If she could reach the gatepost and lean against it, she was more likely to be seen by a passer-by. She managed to stand but still could not put any weight on her damaged ankle. Her eyes tried to pierce the curtain of grey but all she could see was a stunted tree not far from one of the gateposts. She wobbled and stretched out her arms to help her keep her balance. What if nobody came and she ended up freezing to death? She shouted again until she was hoarse and beginning to feel quite desperate.
Then suddenly she heard a mournful wailing and a cold trickle of fear ran down her spine. What if the house behind her was haunted? She remembered that Liverpool had been bombed during the war. Could her half-sister and stepmother have been killed? Regret, disappointment and sadness mingled with her fear at the thought that she would never meet them.
She shivered and dug her hands into her pockets. Instantly her fingers made contact with a box of matches. How had they got there? She remembered the story of The Little Match Girl that her granddad had told her when she was small. That little girl had been out in the snow and had kept lighting the matches to warm herself. In the end she had died after having a vision of her grandmother in heaven.
Emma began to strike the matches and at the same time to try and call for help. When a male voice shouted, ‘Where are you?’ she almost jumped out of her skin.
‘I’m in the garden of this derelict house,’ she croaked. ‘I’ve hurt my ankle and can’t walk.’
‘Stay where you are!’ ordered the voice.
Emma thought that was a daft thing to say when she’d just told him that she couldn’t walk. She remembered Mrs Ashcroft’s words and thought how vulnerable she was to attack right now. Then a figure loomed up through the fog and she realised that it belonged to a very tall policeman.
‘What on earth are you doing in here, miss?’ he asked, gazing down at her.
‘I came in search of my stepmother and half-sister who used to live here. I didn’t know the house was derelict,’ she replied, tilting her head so she could see his face.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ he said, offering her his arm.
‘No.’ She reached out to him but lost her balance and yelped with pain as she fell against him.
The next moment he had swung her up into his arms. ‘I think it’ll be easier if I carry you. Put your arm around my neck and hang on.’
She would have preferred to stand on her own two feet but knew it would be stupid to say so in the circumstances. ‘Y-you’re not taking me to the police station, are you? I haven’t done anything wrong.’
He grinned. ‘First stop, the newsagent’s nearby. Need to get a bit of light on you and have a look at that ankle. Mr Mason also has a telephone if I need to make any calls.’
‘Thank you,’ she said shyly, ‘but I really don’t want to go to hospital.’
‘Who said anything about hospitals? I doubt we’d get an ambulance coming out in this weather,’ he said. ‘Besides, it could be just a twisted ankle or a sprain and I can deal with that.’
She clung to him as he carried her to the block of shops the other side of St Albans. It was a relief to get indoors out of the cold. She found herself being stared at by the man behind the counter. ‘Sweeping girls off their feet now, Constable,’ he said, pausing in his task of placing packets of Woodbines on a shelf.
‘Very funny,’ said the policeman, not sounding amused at all. ‘Where’s the chair you generally keep here?’
Mr Mason did not answer but lifted a chair over the counter and allowed it to slide slowly from his hands onto the floor. ‘What’s happened to her? Who is she? Haven’t seen her round here before.’
‘That’s because she’s from somewhere else,’ said the constable, lowering Emma onto the chair.
She sighed with relief and was now able to get a proper look at her rescuer. He appeared to be in his early twenties, and whilst not exactly having the looks of a matinee film idol, he was good-looking and had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Her heart seemed to flip over as he met her gaze and she lowered her eyes swiftly to her swollen ankle. ‘I’m not going to be able to get my shoe off,’ she said in dismay.
‘You’ll have to, miss. I’ve done a first aid course and would like to have a butcher’s at your ankle and foot and then put it in cold water. That should help to get the swelling down.’ He glanced at the shopkeeper. ‘What about it, Mr Mason? Can you fetch a bowl of cold water for the young lady?’
‘Certainly. As long as there’s no mess made on my shop floor.’ The newsagent disappeared through a curtained doorway into the back.
The constable removed his helmet, revealing fair hair cut in a neat back and sides. After placing his headgear on the counter, he lowered himself onto one knee and took Emma’s foot into his hands. ‘Now, scream if I hurt you,’ he said.
Emma thought if he had intended raising a smile from her, then he had succeeded. ‘I’ll try not to.’
He glanced up at her and grinned. ‘I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humour. So what’s your name and where d’you come from?’
‘My name’s Emma Booth and I live in a village near Clitheroe. I came in search of my stepmother and half-sister as I mentioned to you earlier. The last address I had for them was that dere
lict house.’ She drew in her breath with a hiss as he eased off her shoe.
‘So you mean to tell me that you’ve come all the way from by Pendle Hill to find them?’ His fingers moved gently over her ankle and foot.
She trembled with the effort of not crying out and gasped, ‘You know it?’
‘Lovely scenery. Good walking country. I think you’ve only sprained it but I’ll know better after the swelling’s gone down.’ He placed her foot on the floor. ‘The house of the garden you were in didn’t receive a direct hit, from what I remember being told, but was caught in a bomb blast.’
‘Are you saying that those inside might not have been killed?’ asked Emma eagerly.
‘Could be.’ He straightened up. ‘I don’t come from round here and I wasn’t a policeman during the Blitz.’
She gazed up at him with a hopeful expression on her face. ‘C-can you help me find out what happened to them?’
He rubbed his nose. ‘I suppose I can try. Tell me their names.’
Her spirits rose. ‘My stepmother was a Mrs Lizzie Booth and her daughter’s name was Betty Booth. I’ve never actually met them. My mother died before the war and my father remarried, only to be killed at Dunkirk. My grandparents brought me up and now they’re dead.’
‘Tough luck! My dad was killed at El Alamein.’
Before she could commiserate, there came footsteps and a voice said, ‘Here’s your water, Constable. How’s it looking?’
‘Well, she’s not going to start quickstepping around the Grafton dance floor any minute now,’ he replied, taking the bowl from Mr Mason and putting it on the floor. ‘Now, Miss Booth, you’re going to have to take off your stocking if you’re to place your foot in here.’ He indicated the bowl on the floor. ‘Mr Mason and I will look away.’
‘Thank you,’ murmured Emma, blushing as she hastened to undo her suspender button and remove her stocking. She gritted her teeth against the pain as she did so and then gasped at the coldness of the water as she placed her foot in it.
The policeman turned his head and watched for a few moments before speaking to the shopkeeper in a low voice. Emma attempted to wriggle her toes, which proved difficult, and wondered how long she was expected to keep her foot in the water. How was she to get home? She should never have come to Liverpool but stayed safely in her cottage, thought Emma, feeling woebegone.
The constable’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up at him, thinking again what lovely blue eyes he had. ‘I’ve asked Mr Mason here, Miss Booth, if he remembers your stepmother and her daughter but he wasn’t here during the war,’ said the constable, adding gently, ‘It is eleven years since the Blitz in Liverpool.’
‘I realise that now but I just didn’t think about Liverpool having been bombed before I set out,’ said Emma, withdrawing her foot from the water, only to submerge it again when the policeman raised his eyebrows. ‘I should have stayed at home,’ she said gloomily. ‘My bag was stolen with my purse in it as soon as I set foot in Liverpool and now this had to happen.’ Her voice shook.
‘It’s not your day, is it, Miss Booth?’ said Mr Mason, shaking his head.
‘That’s an understatement if ever I heard one,’ muttered the constable. ‘I tell you what, Miss Booth. When you feel able to make a move, I’ll take you to the police station. You can report the theft officially and we’ll see what we can do to get your bag back.’
‘I doubt you’ll be able to get it back,’ said Emma, grimacing. ‘How far is it to the police station?’
‘A mile or so. I have my bike locked up not far away. I’ll be off duty soon and can fetch it and give you a ride there. It’ll be warm in the station and you can have a nice cup of tea and a bite to eat. I’ll strap up your foot and then we’ll sort out how to get you back home.’
Emma was not going to argue with him, despite wondering how she was going to stand when her ankle still hurt and her foot was half-dead with cold. Perhaps he would sweep her off her feet again. The thought brought a flush to her cheeks and a warmth to her body. She could only mumble how much she appreciated all he had done for her. She told herself that he was only doing his duty but she had never received so much attention from an attractive young man before and was rather looking forward to a ride on his motorbike.
An hour or so later, when Emma caught sight of the constable’s bike, she was lost for words because it proved to be only a pushbike. She did not have the nerve to ask how she was supposed to get comfortable on it as he lifted her up onto the crossbar. Whilst she clasped her shoe and stocking with one trembling hand and the bar with the other, he swung up into the saddle and pushed off from the kerb. The bike swayed and Emma almost dropped her shoe as she made a grab for his tunic. His front lamp sent a shaft of light through the fog and she clung to him with her heart in her mouth as he pedalled off down the road into what she thought of as ‘the Unknown’. Presumably he knew exactly where he was going, but she could not help wondering what would happen to them both if they were to crash into a vehicle. Was what he was doing legal? She felt even more anxious when they reached the end of the road and she could see lights from moving vehicles shining through the fog.
To her relief he dismounted but kept a hand on her back to steady her as he waited for an opening in the traffic. Then he ran with his bike to the other side of the road, whilst she prayed fervently that a vehicle wouldn’t suddenly appear out of the fog and hit them.
When he mounted the bike again, it occurred to Emma to question whether he did this kind of thing often. He seemed quite competent, so perhaps she should stop worrying and have some faith in him. They spun round a corner and then suddenly he was pedalling smoothly and humming a tune beneath his breath. It took her only a couple of moments to realise that the song was ‘A Bicycle Made for Two’. If the day had not already begun to take on a dreamlike quality it would have done so then. Never mind what Mrs Ashcroft might think of such antics, what would her grandparents have had to say about her riding through the fog on a policeman’s crossbar? She felt a giggle rising up inside her, reckoning that if her granddad had still been alive and she had told him of the events of her day in Liverpool, then he would have said that there had been some real dramatic moments. Perhaps she should relax. No doubt once she returned to her village, life would resume its usual humdrum routine.
Emma sat in front of a roaring coal fire with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a sausage butty in the other. Her foot was propped up on a stool, and as she alternately sipped the tea and took bites from the butty, she was mesmerised by the flickering flames in the fireplace. She was glad of this moment alone. Her ankle felt so much better now and she was able to wriggle her toes and rotate her foot a little, despite it still being painful.
The door opened and the constable entered. From a conversation she had heard earlier between him and the desk sergeant, she now knew that his name was Dougie Marshall. ‘So, Miss Booth, how are you feeling now?’ he asked, smiling down at her.
Emma felt a flutter in the region of her heart and was glad she had bought a new frock. It was of black broadcloth with a detachable pleated white gilet and a black tie and there was plenty of material in the skirt. ‘Much better now, thank you.’ She wanted to add that she didn’t know what she’d have done without him. If he hadn’t come along and rescued her she might have frozen to death. He was her hero! But she felt too shy to say so.
What she did say was, ‘I-I’m wondering what happens next. I have my return ticket home but I think I might find it difficult getting on and off the different trains. And what about my stepmother and my half-sister? Do you think you’ll be able to find out what happened to them?’
‘I’ll certainly try,’ said Dougie. ‘Some of the locals might be able to help out. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do. You said that your stepmother’s name was Lizzie Booth?’
She thought what a good memory he had. ‘That’s right. You’ve taken my address in case my bag is found, not that I’m holding out much h
ope. I don’t know what the librarian will say about my library book.’
‘You’ve reported it stolen to the police, and if you give the copy of the form I gave you to the librarian, you shouldn’t have to replace it,’ he said. ‘Now, I think it’s probably best that you stay here for the night. With a bit of luck the fog will have dispersed by morning. The way you moved your foot just then, your ankle should be much better in the morning.’
‘You mean I-I’ll sleep here in the p-police station?’ she stammered.
He grinned. ‘Yeah! We can give you a nice warm bed in a cell. I can’t see you having any villains for company tonight the way the weather is. It won’t cost you anything and we’ll even give you breakfast.’
She decided there was no point in worrying about having no nightie or toothbrush and thanked him. Her only concern was the hens and Tibby but no doubt they’d survive her being away for just one night. As for herself, she’d been fed and was warm and safe and she was going to have a heck of a lot to tell Lila when she saw her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Emma eased herself down from the carriage and limped along the platform to the ticket barrier. Her ankle throbbed, but at least she had managed the trains and there was only the walk from the station through the village to her cottage. Then she’d probably need to relight the fire in the range before she could make herself a cup of tea and put her feet up. She was feeling cheerful despite not having found her sister and her shoulder bag being stolen.
She had spent the journey feeling slightly euphoric. Dougie Marshall had accompanied her to Lime Street station and had told her he would definitely be in touch. She couldn’t get him out of her head. Every time she thought of his blue eyes smiling kindly into hers and his sweeping her off her feet she felt a warm thrill. Surely she couldn’t have fallen in love at first sight? She told herself she must not read into his behaviour more than his simply doing his job as a policeman. And yet he had held her hand after he had helped her into a carriage for what had seemed longer than was necessary. Perhaps he was attracted to her? She sighed; she must get him out of her head because she had so much else to think about during the coming weeks.