The Girl from the Corner Shop

by Alrene Hughes

  Helen took out her notebook and pencil. The first girl, about fourteen, hair all matted, in a coat too small to button up, refused to give her name. ‘I’ve done nowt wrong.’

  ‘I’m not saying you have, but maybe your family are worried about you.’

  The girl gave a snort. ‘They wouldn’t give a monkey’s.’

  Helen tried another tack. ‘Why don’t you just give me your first name then I can write it in my book.’

  The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Mary.’

  ‘All right, Mary, so why are you not living with your parents?’

  ‘No bloody room, is there? Wi’ six kids in the house and not much t’eat.’

  Helen had no answer to that. What was she meant to do? She should be helping the girl, but she hadn’t a clue.

  Then a girl, twelve maybe, was shouting at Mary, ‘At least you’ve got somewhere to go. When we were bombed out, me mam left me with a neighbour and she took the baby and went to live with me auntie. I couldn’t stand the woman she left me with, so I ran away.’

  Helen clutched at the straw. ‘Will you tell me your name and where your auntie lives?’

  ‘I’m called Cynthia Green.’ Her lip trembled. ‘I’d go to me mam like a shot, but I don’t know where me auntie lives.’

  ‘But you must know what area she’s from?’

  Cynthia shook her head. ‘I don’t remember. Allus I know, is it’s a long way.’

  ‘There must be something you could tell us. Did your mam never say anything about where she lived?’

  ‘Only thing me mam ever said was that me auntie lived in’t same street where Gracie Fields were born.’

  ‘Gracie Fields, the singer?’

  Cynthia nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then your auntie and your mam must be in Rochdale. What’s your auntie’s name?’

  ‘Betty Greaves.’

  ‘Well, Cynthia, I’ll see if there’s any way we can find her.’

  Next there was a girl who had run away from home because her mother’s boyfriend threw her out; another hinted at abuse from an uncle. Both seemed relieved that they had told someone.

  ‘We’ll try to find you somewhere where you’ll feel safe,’ Helen told them.

  She moved on to the remaining two girls. Helen had kept an eye on them as the others told their stories. Clearly sisters, the older one with her arm around a child of about six who looked so weary and showed no interest in what the other girls had to say. The child had her head on her sister’s shoulder and never moved.

  ‘And what about you?’ Helen asked. ‘Do you want to tell me your name?’

  ‘Sylvia Hall and my sister’s called Janet.’

  ‘And what’s your address, Sylvia?’

  ‘I haven’t got one any more.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It were bombed.’

  ‘Can you remember what your address used to be?’

  ‘Twenty-four Arundel Street.’

  ‘And where are your parents?’

  ‘I don’t know. We… ran away.’

  ‘From your parents?’

  Sylvia shook her head. ‘We were evacuated. It were all right at first, Mam wrote to us every week and she sent us presents for Christmas, but after that we got no more letters. Janet were frettin’ – she cried every night to go home.’

  Helen looked again at the little girl. She still hadn’t moved.

  ‘What did you do, Sylvia?’

  ‘It were a secret, you see, we didn’t eat our bread, we saved it up. And when we had enough to last us the journey, we set out for Manchester. We followed the railway line. After two days we were walkin’ past a signal box near a station and the man inside came down to see what we was doin’ there. I told him we were on’t way to Manchester. He were kind to us, gave us summat to eat and got us on’t next train. We travelled all the way to Victoria in the guard’s van.’

  Helen could scarcely believe her ears. ‘And did you find the way to your house?’

  ‘I told you, there weren’t no house to find.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It were gone, bombed like most of the street.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘Weren’t nobody to ask. We went back t’station, but Janet were too tired to walk any more and she were cryin’. I didn’t know what to do, we’d no bread left. Then Cynthia come along.’ She pointed to the girl Helen had just spoken to. ‘She said there were a place we could sleep and she took us to the arches and shared her food wi’ us. Then this morning you came and brought us here.’

  Helen looked again at the young child; she still hadn’t stirred. Something was wrong, she wouldn’t have slept through all this. Helen kneeled down in front of the child and lifted her head. She was very hot. ‘Janet, Janet, look at me, love.’ Then she saw the red rash, raw as sandpaper, and recognised it instantly. She picked up the child in her arms and ran with her to the medical room.

  The nurse had just finished tying a PC’s arm in a sling when Helen arrived with Janet.

  ‘And tell your sergeant you’re excused battering down doors for at least a month.’ Then she noticed the child. ‘Lie her down on the bed,’ she told Helen, ‘and let’s have a look.’ She examined the rash – it wasn’t just on her face, it had spread over her torso. She took her temperature and looked down her throat. ‘Plain as the nose on your face – scarlet fever. It’s rife in the city – all those people crammed into air-raid shelters and rest centres. I’ll call the hospital, she needs to be in an isolation ward.’ It was then they noticed Sylvia in the doorway looking frightened. She must have followed her. ‘And what about this one?’ asked the nurse.

  ‘This is Sylvia.’ Helen took her hand and drew her into the room. ‘She’s Janet’s big sister and she’s been looking after her.’

  ‘Right, Sylvia, listen to me,’ said the nurse. ‘Janet’s poorly and I’m going to ring for an ambulance to take her to hospital and you can go with her. We’ll need to tell your parents what’s happened.’

  Sylvia, who had been so brave, could take no more and began to cry. Helen gave the nurse a quick shake of her head. ‘We’re going to find her parents, aren’t we, Sylvia?’ At that moment Sergeant Duffy, having seen Helen leave the canteen with a child in her arms, had come to see what was going on. The combination of scarlet fever and a dozen other children in contact with Janet in a confined space changed everything. ‘I’ll contact the hospital now,’ said the nurse. ‘Those children you’ve found need to be isolated.’

  ‘Come on, Harrison,’ said Sergeant Duffy, ‘we’ve a lot to organise. Let’s get back to the canteen.’

  Helen was worried. What had sounded like a simple operation to rescue children living rough had turned into a lot of work for a lot of people. ‘Did I do the right thing?’

  Sergeant Duffy stopped in her tracks. ‘Of course you did. Here, give me your notebook.’ She scanned Helen’s notes. ‘You’ve got some leads here that we can follow up. Well done. But better still, you spotted the scarlet fever and that little girl has a chance to recover. As for the other children, even if they don’t have scarlet fever, you’ve bought us some time. They’ll have a few days in hospital, where they’ll be well fed, and by that time we might have tracked down their parents and that’s better than sending them to children’s homes where they might have infected everyone there. We’ve just a few days, Harrison, so I want you to start with those two little ones. See if you can find anything that might lead you to the parents. Don’t do anything more than that, you’re only an auxiliary, so you’ll report back to me and I’ll decide what happens then.’

  It was logical to start with the address that Sylvia had given her and fortunately there were only two Arundel Streets listed in the Manchester street directory: one in Hulme, the other further out in Didsbury. Then she remembered that Hulme had been badly bombed at Christmas. She signed out at the station and caught the bus from Piccadilly. She asked the conductor about Arundel Street and he said, ‘I’ll give you a s
hout when we get to St George’s Park, it’s just on the other side of it.’

  Once on the street, she kept an eye on the house numbers. At first there were houses with a few windows boarded up, then a few with damaged roofs covered with tarpaulin. Beyond those there was heavy damage: walls demolished; windows blown out; piles of masonry, slates, charred wood. She picked up the house numbers again and realised the rubble she had walked past amounted to five houses, one of them number 24, Sylvia and Janet’s home. What must it have been like for them to have travelled so far to stand in front of the devastating sight? Surely, they must have cried. Did the neighbours see them? Sylvia never mentioned knocking on doors to ask where their parents were, maybe they were too frightened of being sent back. Someone must know what happened to their mam and dad. Then she remembered something, smiled and retraced her steps to the corner shop. She pushed open the door and the bell jangled a welcome – she was on home territory here.

  Another bus ride and she joined the throng of working men in their blue and white mufflers walking the terraced streets to the hallowed ground with its high red-bricked walls and, above them, the steel structure of the stands. Across the blue corrugated roof, the white letters spelled out ‘Manchester City Football Club’.

  There were queues at every turnstile, but she felt sure that if she queued up, she would be treated like everyone else and would have to buy a ticket. There must be another way in, she thought, and eventually, on the opposite side of the ground, she spotted a door with the sign ‘Players’ Entrance’. It was open.

  Inside, there was a brick corridor and a strong smell: a mix of damp earth, wintergreen, and the pungent stench of sweat. She hadn’t gone far when there was a blast of raucous laughter as a door opened, and a man in the black strip of a referee appeared.

  He looked startled. ‘What you doin’ down here? Players only in the dressing rooms.’

  Helen was just as shocked to see him. ‘I’m from the Manchester police. Is there someone I could speak to about a police matter?’

  He didn’t argue. ‘Yes, all right, miss, I’ll get one of the boot boys to take you to the office.’

  By the time she got there, the match had kicked off, but when Helen explained the situation to the man in charge of the Tannoy system he agreed to make a public announcement at half-time. ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘You can watch the first half from the best seats.’

  Helen had never been to a football match in her life and was amazed at the number of people crammed into the ground, most of them standing on the terraces. The noise was deafening: men shouting, cheering, and the awful clack-clack of the rattles in her ear. ‘Should be a good game today,’ said the Tannoy man. ‘You’ll be cheering for the boys in blue, I hope.’ She kept her eye on the ball, the blues were racing up the field. She held her breath, the ball was in the air, they must score… in the stand everyone rose to their feet… Goal! And she cheered just as loud as any fan who had been coming here man and boy.

  When the half-time whistle sounded, Helen listened to the announcement. Ten minutes later Mr Hall, father of Sylvia and Janet, arrived in the office. He was shocked to see a policewoman, but Helen quickly told him his girls were safe. Then she recounted their story of running away and finding their home had been bombed and their parents gone. ‘We found them yesterday in Manchester and they’ve been taken to the children’s hospital off Quay Street because we think Janet might have scarlet fever.’

  Helen was surprised to see such an anguished look on his face. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Hall, I’m sure they’ll be fine. They were just desperate to see you and their mother. There’s visiting allowed on Sunday afternoons – you can see them then.’

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Their mam’s gone. The house took a direct hit when I were workin’ nights. I got home in the morning just as they were pullin’ her out of the rubble. She were in hospital for two days, but there was nothing they could do for her. After that I went to live with my cousin in Longsight. Never went back to Arundel Street again.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell the girls?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t bear to tell them… best to leave them where they were… not knowing.’

  ‘You didn’t write either?’

  ‘I were never much of a writer. Their mother was the one kept in touch. I wouldn’t’ve known what to say.’

  ‘Mr Hall, they’re your children. You need to go and see them and tell them about their mother, then it’s up to you whether you send them back to the people who were looking after them. Or maybe you could keep them with you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What would your wife want you to do?’

  He almost smiled. ‘She’d want me to bring them back home if they were frettin’.’ He seemed to reach a decision. ‘Yes, I’ll go and see them tomorrow afternoon. I’m thinkin’ that when they’re fit, they could stay with me at my cousin’s till I find a place for us.’

  The second half had already started when they parted, Helen to go back to the station and the girls’ father to the football. ‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘The woman in the corner shop where you used to live told me you never missed a blues home match.’

  Chapter 15

  Helen couldn’t stop smiling on the way home. For once in her life she had done something to be proud of in reuniting Sylvia and Janet with their father. She couldn’t wait for Monday to see what could be done with the other children – that’s if they didn’t send her back to clerking duties.

  She hung her tunic and cap on the hook behind the door and took off her shoes. There wasn’t much in the house for tea, so she emptied a tin of mackerel in a saucepan and lit the gas. She was just cutting some bread to toast when there was a knock at the door. She peeked through the parlour window and saw a man in a tweed coat wearing a brown pork pie hat stood with his back to her. He swung round and she juked backwards out of sight. Now he was banging loudly on the door and she had no choice but to open it.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Harrison.’ His foot was already over the threshold. ‘You’re a hard woman to catch at home. I’ll come in, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to discuss your business on the doorstep.’

  She stood back – she could hardly refuse her landlord access to his own property. He came inside and cast his eyes around the sparsely furnished parlour. ‘I’ve had a complaint from the neighbours, serious enough for me to come here on a Saturday night when I’d sooner be in the Nelson with a pint of best bitter in my hand. Now what I want to know is, who exactly is living here?’

  ‘Just me.’ She could only tell the truth, she’d done nothing wrong.

  ‘So, you lied about the tenancy?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Is your name on the rent book?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Then it’s not a legal tenancy. When I showed you round the house you had a man with you and I understood him to be your husband. He’s the one signed the agreement and now I’ve no idea who he is. I’ll not mince my words, I’ve been told that various men have been seen “visiting” you.’

  Helen was horrified. It was bad enough that Ada had wrongly accused her about men coming to her house, but now it seemed her lies could cost her her home. ‘But he’s…’ she corrected herself. ‘He was my husband.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Then you’re a widow?’

  ‘Yes, he died in the bombings at Christmas.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’ He didn’t look very sorry. ‘But it makes no difference, you’ve still had men coming to the house.’

  ‘My boss, my husband’s friend—’

  ‘And they bring you flowers?’

  ‘That was… different.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know. The fact is, your husband’s name is on the rent book and now that he’s dead, you don’t have the tenancy.’

 
; ‘But you could just change it to my name. I’m working, I’m paying the rent.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m giving you notice, you’ll need to get out by the end of next week.’ He was smirking now as he looked around the room. ‘And I don’t expect it’ll take you too long to pack up the few belongings you have.’ She just wanted him to go, but he stood there, a strange look on his face. ‘Of course, we could come to some sort of arrangement.’ He reached out and ran his hand up and down her arm. ‘You and I could go upstairs to inspect your bedroom.’

  She was horrified. ‘Get out! Get out! I’d rather sleep on the streets.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got your wish. Out by Friday, Mrs Harrison, and that’s an end to it.’

  When he’d gone, Helen took the rent book from the drawer and studied it. There was Jim’s name and signature and, next to that, the word ‘tenant’. There was no mention of her at all, it was as though she didn’t exist, but there in the book were the payments she had made, right to the end of the first column. It was so unfair. She screamed in frustration and fought back the tears. There was a time when she would have been overwhelmed by such a blow, but not now. She would just have to find somewhere else to live. She retrieved the Manchester Evening News from under the cushion of the fireside chair and turned to the columns of lodgings and houses to rent.

  Sunday morning was dull and threatened rain and, by the time Helen had seen two lodging houses and a dilapidated house, she understood that everything had been snapped up by the council for those who had lost their homes in the recent bombings. There was one more house off Queen’s Road, not far from Gwen’s, that she would try, but when she got there it was all boarded up, and when she asked the next-door neighbour about it, she said it was gutted inside and needed a lot of work. It was no use, she’d have to start again tomorrow when she finished her shift.