by Sheila Riley
‘It appears you finally got your wish to stay home out of the cold weather, Miss Blackthorn,’ Miss Hawkins told her. ‘Mr Beamer held out for as long as possible—’
‘Got his pound of flesh out of us, more like,’ Susie interrupted, tidying her desk. ‘This office is so cold, rigor mortis is setting in.’
‘That’s enough, Susie,’ Miss Hawkins checked the clerk with a disapproving glare. ‘We will contact you when business resumes.’
‘I could have another office job by then,’ Susie answered peevishly.
‘I doubt it.’ Miss Hawkins tone was caustic. ‘You kept your position here only by the skin of your teeth. I would say simple filing is about your metier.’
‘What’s a metier?’ the other girl asked, too affronted to mind her manners.
‘Vocation,’ Evie answered, determined not to smile.
‘Swallowed a dictionary, have we?’ Susie’s expression was livid in its glowering delivery as Evie went to put the tools of her trade into the store cupboard. Businesses were closing all over the country. What chance did an office cleaner have if good clerks would be so easy to come by?
4
Unbeknown to Evie, her siblings had been back home since early January. Jack’s lanky strides made slow progress down the cobbled street, hampered by the paper-thin layer of smooth rubber covering the soles of his size nines. Placing an uncertain foot on each glassy step leading up to the bridge, he muttered to himself.
‘Don’t slip, Jack.’ Not daring to lose concentration, he placed his other foot on the step, urging himself onward, his freezing hands gripping the homemade trolley which, out of necessity, he’d cobbled together from a rough much-sought-after wooden pallet and four pram wheels rescued from the canal before it froze over. It had only one buckled wheel.
The trolley-cart was a godsend for collecting precious scraps to burn, not having a single lump of coal in the house and no prospects of getting any. Looking around, it seemed there were many who had the same idea. The proof was in missing wooden railings, torn down for kindling.
His blue eyes were drawn to the glow of the full moon mirrored on the surface of the frozen canal and he marvelled at its haunting beauty. A dreamer, Jack was fascinated by the trapped detritus bulging from the ice, longing to capture it in precious charcoals Aunt Brigit gave him for Christmas, before he and Lucy were so abruptly put on a boat home.
‘One day…’ he said, determined. He knew he didn’t have the funds for the materials unless he found himself a proper job instead of foraging, the life he had led since returning. If coal was plentiful, they still could not afford to buy any.
He yearned for cosy nights around the turf fire, drawing the majestic horses he had been lucky enough to work with on the farm. Jack knew he’d been away too long to call this place home. So much had changed. He spoke differently. Even the voices in his head had a Celtic lilt.
However, Lucy had taken to the narrow backstreets immediately, making friends with that young snapper, Bobby Harris. She loved the busyness of the port town, the smoky smell of soot-covered buildings, the foghorns on the river. Agile as anything, she flitted through bomb-damaged streets like a gazelle…
A razor wind bit into his naked ankles and fresh-falling snow seeped into his shabby galoshes. It was time to shift himself. Artistic urges were an impossible dream. Lads like him worked on the grimy docks, in the ear-splitting factories or the back-breaking warehouses that lined the Mersey. They didn’t paint.
Creativity and imagination were not deemed possible for a backstreet boy whose gauzy illustrations captured the tranquillity he longed for. He had dreams and ambitions. Living, not just existing…
‘Kill the dream, Jack, you eejit!’ His words hovered on the freezing night air as he pulled up the frayed collar of his jacket. He had to move on before he froze to the spot. The winter cough that had kept Lucy indoors for the last couple of days would not last forever. She would be out skating on that ice if he wasn’t there to stop her.
What was the use of worrying, it was never worthwhile. His soft whistle penetrated the silence as he crunched through the snow, his young sister’s pinched expression urging him on. Digging cold rough hands deep into his pockets he lowered his head against the sudden onslaught of icy hail that stung his face and neck. Jack recalled Ma’s words when she came to fetch him and Lucy off the boat from Ireland. She’d promised better days ahead.
She lied.
Connie popped two hot water bottles into her bed. They would take the chill off, and the bed would be nice and cosy by the time she finished serving behind the bar. It was on nights like this that she missed Rene Kilgaren. The bar was quiet of late because of the bad weather and the night seemed endless with nobody to talk to.
‘I’ll bring you your favourite nightcap, Mim,’ Connie called from her bedroom on the same landing. ‘By some miracle, we got a delivery today,’
She pencilled her dark brows before applying mascara to her long lashes. A touch of rouge brought a rosy glow on a cold winter’s night and complemented the hunter’s bow of red lipstick. A quick spray of sugared water to her upswept coronet of russet curls completed the glamorous film-star look she was aiming for.
‘You remind me of me when I was your age…’ Mim said when Connie went into the living room. Still handsome in her late fifties, her mother would not have looked out of place in a Rubenesque painting. Mim had been landlady of the Tram Tavern since she and Connie’s late father, Bert, married thirty years ago. A bolting dray horse tragically killed Bert, the life and soul of any party, during an air raid. ‘We didn’t close the tavern doors once, during the war – did I tell you?’
‘Only a few times, Mim.’ Everybody, including Connie, called her mother Mim. ‘Shall I bring you a nice tot of rum to go with your Guinness?’
‘Don’t put yourself out on my account… but it does help me sleep since your father left.’ Mim refused to say he was dead. If she said the words, it meant his demise was permanent. Final. He was never coming back.
‘I know.’ Connie thought to herself that if Mim didn’t nod off after tea and snore her way through the news, she might sleep a lot better when she went to bed. But she would never begrudge her mother anything. Mim had worked long and hard enough in that bar downstairs to deserve anything she wanted. In the mirror, she saw Mim rubbing her stomach.
‘Are you all right, Mim?’ Connie asked, worried that her mother was in pain.
‘It’s just my hated hyena. It’s been playing up all day.’ Mim got up and walked over to the window.
‘Shall I fetch you a little magnesia?’ Connie’s mother had self-diagnosed a hernia. Connie, a qualified nurse, suspected the loosening of her mother’s corset would immediately solve her problem. However, Mim would not allow her ‘bits to jiggle’ in public. It would not be decent, she had said many times. A daughter of the Edwardian Age, Mim felt she must be securely held together at all times.
‘I’ll get the doctor out if you’re no better tomorrow,’ Connie said, knowing her mother was a fit as a flea. She was not in the least surprised when Mim shook her head and said, ‘There’ll be no need for doctors, thank you very much! You can see to me.’ Every day some imagined ailment tormented Mim, convincing her she was not long for this world. ‘What’s the use of wasting half a crown on that old quack when I know exactly what’s wrong with me?’
Connie rolled her eyes. Yesterday Mim suspected she had double pneumonia, with quinsy thrown in for good measure, although she insisted on taking it all in her sainted stride and did her best to let every customer know how much of a martyr she truly was. Connie, fed up of listening, had laced her tea with a generous tot of rum and Mim was as chirpy as a canary after that.
‘I’ll be closing early tonight,’ Connie said, knowing the foul weather was keeping most men indoors. That, and the lack of work.
‘Don’t forget the tot of rum for my hyena!’ Mim called when Connie opened the door leading down to the bar. ‘Did you hear me?’ Mim’s
strident tone contradicted her prognostic near-death condition.
‘Yes, Mim, I heard you!’ Connie shouted back. The whole bloody street heard you. She pulled the bar door a few times, releasing it from the twisted frame, a legacy of those terrifying nights when the Luftwaffe got too close for comfort. Although she wasn’t here when it happened, she was thankful to the people of Reckoner’s Row who pulled together when Mim was on her own.
Forget the war, Connie told herself. It’s over. Done with. Time to move on…
Unlocking the bar door and taking a quick peep outside, she shivered. The tranquil street was lit only by a shimmering full moon and was unusually quiet. The children of the Row were indoors, tucked up in their tidy terraced houses. None were skating on the frozen canal or throwing snowballs at each other.
The bridge at the top of the fifteen stone steps outside the tavern was also quiet. Usually busy with horse-drawn carts carrying goods to or from the docks, the steep bridge was too slippery for the horse’s hooves to grip the cobbles. Local women scattered ashes from their dead fires that morning, but it had made little difference to the thick layer of ice as lorry wheels slid from one side of the bridge to the other. Some drivers had looked for different, flatter routes, but most were prevented by snow-blocked roads.
‘Mind how you go,’ Connie called to a neighbour venturing from the warmth of her fireside.
‘It’s cold enough to freeze your thoughts,’ the woman said, hurrying, head down, towards the chip shop. Connie quickly came back indoors and banged the door shut. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to convince her mother she would not stay open later than was absolutely necessary. And yes, she would listen to her favourite mystery wireless programme, The Man in Black, later. Mim didn’t like listening alone and said how fortunate she was to have her daughter safely home, pulling pints instead of shrapnel.
Don’t think of the war, Connie silently scolded herself, poking the fire in the bar. Those days are gone. She forced her thoughts towards another newer worry. Falling trade and lack of beer would soon force her to reduce the Tavern’s opening hours, until the weather took a turn for the better. There were still a hardy few who huddled around the pub fire, mainly to save using their own precious coal. But making a gill of beer last all night did not pay enough to keep the place running. Something would have to be done. However, contrary to her mother’s advice, Connie was determined not to go by way of the black market. Straight and true. That’s how she liked to run her business. That way, she was sure of a good night’s sleep and could open her door to anybody.
5
The following evening, Connie hurried back to the tavern after picking up the wintergreen liniment for Mim’s arthritic knee. Although it was just turned five o’clock, the street was dark, lit only by the full moon that illuminated the icy, glass-like strips on the pavement made by little buggers who dared not go skating on the frozen canal. Connie shivered when she looked towards the canal to see the adventurous, older kids risking life and limb knowing they’d be in for a walloping from their mothers if they were caught skating on it. The thought made her heart dip.
What must it be like, to be a mother? A curse for the worry of keeping your offspring fed and safe? Certainly. Especially around the docks, where temptation to get into mischief was around every soot-covered corner.
Children, the most important of blessings, had been denied her. Becoming a bride and a widow on the same day saw to that. Don’t think of it now.
Blocking out the events of that terrible day was impossible, and it was easier to say nothing than to go into every small forensic detail her mother would demand to hear. As for losing the child… conceived out of wedlock… Mim wouldn’t be able to cope with the knowledge her daughter was an ordinary human being who could fall in love, just like everybody else.
The only person she’d told about that awful day was Rene Kilgaren. Tough as old boots, nothing shocked her, and she had a way of getting information without even asking questions. Having been through her share of worry and heartache until she lost her husband at sea, it was the most natural thing for Connie to share her biggest secret.
Rene hadn’t been at work for over a week. Connie had knocked on the permanently closed front door a few times but got no answer, even though she was sure there was somebody inside.
Deep in thought, her attention was caught by someone peering through Rene’s parlour window at the top of the street next door to the tavern. She was too far down the street to identify this nosey bugger, whose face was sandwiched between both hands to get a better view through the window.
Halfway up Reckoner’s Row, Connie wondered if she should call out.
Connie’s breathing quickened, her heart pumping in her throat. There was nobody around. The deserted street was silent. Every front door closed. Rene had thrown Darnel out on Boxing Day after discovering he was a bit too friendly with a woman from Beamer Terrace. Maybe he was crawling back, looking for Rene’s forgiveness? But this fella looked too tall for Darnel.
‘Here! What you up to?’ Connie’s voice rang out and hung in the icy air. ‘Come away from there!’ He turned to face her. His features were hidden behind a dark balaclava, in the diminished glow of the nearby gas-lamp. He didn’t move, but watched her unhurried footsteps make their way up the street.
You don’t half pick your time to get brave, Connie. She found it hard to breathe as the frantic thump, thump, thump of her heart drummed in her ears. Slipping her tongue over her parched lips she looked around for something to give her courage, knowing a jar of wintergreen would not have the same impact as a stick. No, something heavier. A house brick. Just a half-set. She only wanted to frighten him – not kill the bugger!
‘I’ll call a bobby!’ Her voice, as good as any weapon, caused a few curtains to twitch, but did little to quell her anxiety. Two front doors opened, and she saw the peeping Tom take flight. Disappearing down the narrow alleyway between Rene’s house and the tavern.
‘Are you all right there, Connie?’ Ada Harris, called from her front door. And for the first time, Connie was glad her nosey neighbour had come to see what the commotion was about.
‘Yes thanks, Mrs Harris,’ Connie’s voice, even to her own ears sounded too cheerful, and she waved as she made her way up the rest of Reckoner’s Row. She would call in on Rene later. Clutching the wintergreen, she was glad she hadn’t had to use it as a deterrent.
Stealing a glance over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, Jack headed towards the dockyard to collect the wood he had hidden earlier. It was teatime, and the delicious smell of cooking permeated the frosty air making his stomach growl.
Trying hard to ignore his yearning stomach, Jack kept to the shadows of the prefabricated warehouses that had replaced the striking redbrick buildings destroyed during the war. He knew every inch of the dock road, with its narrow streets of back-to-back houses and its public houses on every other corner.
When he and Lucy reached Clarence Dock after Christmas, Jack understood how protected he and Lucy had been during the war and he recalled how his chest swelled back in Ireland when he stood up and told the whole class that this was his hometown.
The sight of rubble, where family homes had once stood, shocked him to the core, bringing home to him how much better off they had been in Ireland. Devastated houses. Ruined businesses. Like broken teeth against the backdrop of the River Mersey, they were still visible. His heart ached, remembering the pre-war streets. This wasn’t the same port he had left as a seven-year old. How could it be?
The enemy had tried to wipe its buildings and people off the face of the earth, because of its proximity to the docks. The seven-mile plateau of granite and sandstone wet docks along the northern shoreline were fronted by warehouses filled with hardware, railway parts, casks of ale, muslin-wrapped cheese, pottery, iron, food of every description, meat from as far away as New Zealand. The Ganges and the Saint Lawrence were the Mersey’s tributaries and most of the world’s imports w
ere handled in the port.
Threading his way through the port’s interconnecting alleys and streets that filtered down to the docklands that kept cargoes on the move, he understood why this was one of the most important and dangerous places on earth to live during the war, as goods were shifted from the waterfront to the bustling storehouses and factories across Britain.
Liverpool, the maritime giant, the pinnacle of the food chain, sensitive to the insecurities of the world’s plight, was a colossal threat to enemy triumph. Jack could clearly see the result of the order to destroy the port by any means possible. He knew local men who had done their bit, came home expecting a land fit for heroes and returned to shattered streets ribbing the backbone of the River Mersey.
Memories of the good food he enjoyed back in Ireland made him salivate. After being so well fed and looked after, the severe conditions horrified him when they came back here to little short of nothing, and it was getting worse day by day. Encouraging the export drive, the papers said, as poor families lived from hand to mouth. It wasn’t right. Victors were coming home to much less than they were promised. The whole bloody country’s banjaxed, he thought.
Jack was aware a dire housing shortage forced people to share a house with family, or friends or even neighbours. He worried that people would cotton on to the fact his mother had done a bunk and that number two was now occupied by a lad of fourteen and his ten-year-old sister. They’d inform the landlord who would turf him and Lucy out on their arse. Where would they end up? Lucy would be taken away!
Jack trudged on through the snow, his feet soaking wet. He would not let anybody take his little sister, no matter how bloody annoying she could be. They had been together since the day she was born.
