The Angels of Lovely Lane

by Nadine Dorries

They had had the same conversation every night for the past thirteen years. Occasionally it varied as a different memory came back to him. One that had niggled at him during the day. The doctors often stared at her blankly, as though she were the one who had lost her mind, when she tried to explain that she thought he saved things up for when she arrived, to share with her. There were moments during the day, she was sure from what the nursing staff told her, when he anticipated her arrival and looked forward to her coming, but the remainder of the time he spent with the ghost of her mother. In the first few years, she would show him the watch on her wrist, but it meant nothing to him. Nor did leaving the watch with him. He would look at it when she explained and say, ‘Aye, that’s right,’ and then continue in just the same vein. Sometimes he would fret that he was late for a hospital appointment or that he had misplaced his blackout rota, or go on and on about the shoes he had to clean for her brothers for church, or worry that the kids hadn’t come home from Rita’s yet and must be driving Rita mad. She could never explain it to him, because even after all these years it was not a story she could tell without her eyes filling with tears and a catch in her throat. There was not a day when she too didn’t think about Rita, the woman her brothers had died with. Or hear her last words and her brothers’ whoops of joy when she said they could stay in Rita’s house while she ran to the shop with the coupons for butter. ‘You are such a love,’ Rita had said.

  Such a love. Such a love. Such a love. Sometimes, the words played over and over in a loop in her mind and she could hear Rita’s voice, as clear as though she were in the next room.

  There were half a dozen tableaux Alf could run through each night and every one of them reminded her of all that she had lost. Emily played her part as she washed and changed him and clipped his nails and brushed what was left of his hair. She asked the nurses to leave the evening routine for her. It made her feel less guilty, to be able to do something practical and worthwhile for him. To make him clean and comfortable, to feed him a drink and some toast, to chat away, to give him his medication and sleeping tablets and sit with him, holding his hand, until he fell asleep. His last words every night were ‘Night night, my petal’, his pet name for her mother.

  When she left, she spotted the night nurse at her desk, writing by the light of the lamp. The home was filled with the sound of gentle wails and moans.

  ‘Is that you, Gladys?’ called out one patient. A former soldier, a lost soul, searching. There was no answer. Who knew who Gladys was, or even if Gladys was still alive? It mattered not; Gladys lived on in the home for distressed and injured soldiers.

  ‘Are you off now?’ asked the nurse, snapping the top back on to her pen. She got up and walked from the pool of light cast by the lamp towards Emily. In the dimness of the hallway her shadow loomed up the wall ahead of her.

  ‘I am. He’s asleep. I’ve got his dirty pyjamas in my bag and I’ll bring some more clean ones back tomorrow. Did he eat his lunch today?’

  ‘He did, love. Day Sister said he was great. They played bingo and he kept shouting “House”. He thought he’d won every time. Loved it.’

  The thought of Alf enjoying himself made Emily smile. ‘Maybe we can do that on Saturday?’

  ‘I’m sure you can, and you can be the caller. Sister was hoarse by the time she had finished.’

  ‘Thanks for saving me the shepherd’s pie,’ said Emily.

  ‘Not at all, love, it would just have ended up in the pig bin anyway. Someone who works as hard as you do deserves a little looking after. I’m baking tomorrow. I’ll bring in a nice slice of cake for you.’

  Emily smiled her thanks. In truth, she wanted to put her arms out and hug the night sister. Emily’s job was a lonely one. She enjoyed the company of the nurses, but she was their sister tutor. She could not be their friend. All she had in the world was her da, Alf, and the thought of losing him one day was difficult to face. On the day he left her, she would be truly alone.

  She had told no one at work about Alf. After the bombing, homeless and distraught, they had left almost immediately to stay with her mother’s friend in North Wales. They could not accept the charity of their neighbours, those who had survived. They could not join the dispossessed, thronging into the town hall for help. They went by train from Liverpool to Betty’s the same day.

  They returned, just the once, to bury her mother and to visit Maisie Tanner. Maisie was hardly fit to receive visitors. Her tears fell as soon as she saw Emily; her new baby, lying on her chest, looked as though she wouldn’t survive the day. The baby had been only seconds old when Emily had last set eyes on her. It was all just too much for everyone to absorb. The deaths. A new and delicate life. A broken community. The maelstrom of emotions had left the community reeling. Maisie’s daughter, Pammy, made them tea, or tried her best, at least. Maisie’s old mam fussed around, wearing widow’s weeds. With wet eyes she repeated the names of the friends she had lost, winding her handkerchief into a knot, oblivious of the new life in her kitchen. The women who had shared in the birth of her own children had been blown apart by a bomb.

  ‘Will you be calling on Rita?’ she asked Emily and then realized her error, and wiped her mouth with her twisted hankie. ‘God, I’m sorry. It was the Connors’ house too, you know, and the O’Reillys’. Not a scrap of anyone or anything could they find, just dust and rubble.’ She seemed to have forgotten that Emily’s brothers had also been turned into dust and rubble. ‘There’s been a mass held in the street every day since.’ The old lady’s voice trailed away into an awkward silence.

  What could anyone say? They had survived. They had lived. Emily and her father had lost everything. Life had changed so far beyond recognition that no one knew what to say any more. The familiar framework of conversation had been blown away with the entire street. What point discussing the weather, the washing or what was in the shop? Who cared?

  As Emily said her goodbyes, little Pammy had held her hand at the door and asked, ‘Will you come again?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Emily. But she knew she never, ever would.

  *

  Martha had been cleaning down the surfaces in her kitchen, counting down the minutes, waiting for the six p.m. klaxon to sound on the docks. She would make her way over to the porter’s lodge and walk home with Jake.

  The tap was running into the sink, and she was stacking the dishes on to the shelf and making such a clatter that she didn’t even hear him come in, but she was ready. She had known he would be back. As he lurched towards her, she extracted the vegetable knife from her apron pocket in a flash. Her hand trembled so much she nearly dropped it.

  ‘Do it again, and I will use this,’ she hissed through quivering lips. She had thought her voice would betray her. That her words would stick or shake or, worse, not come out at all. Even she was stunned at his reaction as he reeled and fell back with such force, it was as though a dozen hands had heaved him off her and thrown him against the wall.

  ‘Are you a lunatic?’ Spittle flew from his mouth and she felt it land on her cheek. ‘What are you doing, you stupid bitch? Put that down.’ She noticed he was hurriedly trying to button up his trousers, which he had half undone before he came to find her.

  ‘I’m to be married,’ she whispered. Her voice faltered, although she had intended to sound bold and strong. ‘If you touch me again, I will tell me mam. She works for Matron and I will get her to tell Matron, I will.’

  This obviously came as news to him because he visibly paled. ‘All right, Martha, no need to tell anyone, now, is there? Put the knife down. I thought you liked it. I didn’t know you were getting married, or I wouldn’t have come anywhere near you. It will be just between us, all right? Don’t tell anyone, will you? If you do, I can guarantee you will come off worse. I’m sure your boyfriend would like to hear about how you chatted me up. Who is he? Is it the porter’s lad I’ve seen you flirting with outside? Shall I go and find him now and tell him?’

  He was almost out of the door by
this time and walking backwards, as though willing himself not to turn his back to her. She did not say a word in response. Staring him out with the hatred which shone from her eyes, she stood motionless until the door banged shut on his snarling face. Martha knew she had achieved her aim. He would not bother her again.

  Moments later, she shook so violently that she could not hold the knife any longer, and it clattered to the floor. Tears poured down her cheek as she retrieved it, terrified lest he should come back in through the door and snatch it to use against her. She slipped the knife back into her pocket, and that was where it would live, every single day from then on. On the day when Mr Scriven came into the sitting room, as he often did, acting as though nothing had happened, she would slip her fingers into her pocket and reassure herself that it was there and she was safe.

  Chapter eighteen

  Almost a week passed before Dana heard from Teddy, and when she did it came in the form of another note. This time she found it on her bed, on top of a letter from home, where the maids always left her post.

  I hope you got my note on Tuesday saying I had been sent to the sanatorium in West Kirby. I will be back on Sunday. I couldn’t say no when my consultant asked me to go – don’t want to get into his bad books.

  Dana tore the letter into a hundred tiny pieces and dropped them into her waste paper basket.

  ‘You little liar,’ she hissed at the basket, just as Victoria walked into the room.

  ‘Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, so they say.’ Victoria went over to the basket and looked in. ‘What’s that? Couldn’t you tear the pieces any smaller?’

  ‘It’s a letter from Teddy, that’s what. Wheedling, whining, full of excuses. I hope you got my last note, he said. Well really now, what note, I would say. Said he was sent to West Kirby by his consultant. Do you know what I think? I think he’s full of cow shite. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Well, it does seem a bit odd. This one arrived with no problem, even though it’s torn into a million bits in the bin now and I can’t read it.’

  Dana’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I was just so mad at the boldness of the man.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologize to me. Do you feel better now that you have ripped his letter up?’

  ‘Do you know what? I actually do. I really do feel better. The little toad. I’ll tell you what, he had better come nowhere near me, because if he does I’ll set Pammy on him, so help me God I will.’

  ‘Right, good,’ said Victoria. ‘I couldn’t think of a better plan. There cannot be a man alive who wouldn’t be scared of an angry Pammy. Now, it’s ham, egg and chips for supper. Do you know, I had never in my life eaten such a meal until I got here. I’d heard of chips, but I’d never eaten them, and I bloody love them now. When Aunt Minnie finds out, she will have a fit.’

  Both girls descended the stairs to the kitchen, Victoria chatting away to Dana, distracting her from the treatment she had suffered at the hands of her own boyfriend’s brother, as she had been doing for the past week.

  Never mind Pammy, she thought. The brute has me to deal with first.

  Less than a week passed before Teddy tried to make contact with Dana again. He made the mistake of trying to do so through Victoria. Victoria gave him short shrift.

  ‘Teddy, in no circumstances must you ever try to see Dana, ever again. Do you understand me?’

  ‘But, Vic, I truly did give one of your nurses a note to pass to Dana. I couldn’t help it – I was sent away to West Kirby because they were a doctor down. Truly, Vic. Give a bloke a break.’

  Victoria almost believed him, but then the thought occurred to her that if what he said were true, the note would very quickly have been in Dana’s hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, Teddy, I’m afraid I just can’t believe you. There was no note. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’

  Victoria’s voice carried a trace of her aunt Minnie and she was very firm on Dana’s behalf. Teddy knew there was no point in his continuing to try to persuade her. His only tactic could be to tell his brother that he had not let Dana down in such an awful way and see if he could persuade him to convince Victoria. Dr Edward Davenport was not a cad, and he was very sweet on Dana Brogan. She had ensnared him with her eyes and her red Irish curls and he was not a man who gave up on something he truly wanted.

  *

  Oliver Gaskell waited at the restaurant door while he smoked a cigarette. The autumn leaves were falling and blowing down the street and the wind was rising by the minute. He glanced at his watch nervously, then shot a glance down Bold Street towards where it joined Church Street. In the distance, he made out her figure striding purposefully up the road, head bent against the wind, one hand in her pocket, the other holding on to her hat. She hadn’t yet seen him and he couldn’t help himself: he grinned. The war had put his life on hold and he was done with waiting. Tonight would be the first step towards changing that. He wanted to be a married man and enjoy all that came with it.

  ‘I’m so sorry. The bus was late and then two came along at once. You know what it’s like.’ She was flustered as she removed her hat. Emily didn’t like to be late for anyone or anything. By her reckoning, being late was an inexcusable crime. This was not a good start.

  ‘I saw you coming and so I knew I hadn’t been stood up.’ He watched, amused, as Emily, unused to wearing her hair down, tried to pat her shoulder-length tresses into some sort of order. His gaze travelled down her clothes. He was disappointed. He had seen them before. She was wearing what she wore for work. It crossed his mind that maybe she thought he wasn’t worth dressing up for.

  ‘Our table is ready,’ he said. ‘I ordered you some wine. Come on, let’s have a drink and forget about the beastly buses. They’re always late.’

  Emily smiled up at him. Biddy was right, he did have a winning smile and he was very good-looking, but there was an enthusiasm, almost an impatience about his manner that made Emily nervous. He had asked her to have dinner with him almost two weeks ago and she had seen the look of disappointment flit across his face when she gave him the date of her next available free night. ‘I, er, don’t want to step on anyone’s toes,’ he had said, waiting for her to reassure him. To let him know that she was, as he suspected, a spinster of the parish just waiting for Dr Right to pop along.

  ‘Is this your favourite restaurant?’ she asked as they sat down.

  ‘Yes. It was the first to reopen after the war. My parents used to bring me here when I was a young boy.’

  For a second, Emily contrasted the difference in their backgrounds. She had never in her life visited a restaurant with her parents, and even now it was an all too rare treat. As the waiter handed her the menu, she looked at him gratefully and whispered a very sincere, ‘Thank you.’

  The waiter smiled.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘Are you busy tonight?’

  ‘Oh, no, miss. We are never really busy. I don’t know how this place keeps going.’

  As Emily scanned the menu, it occurred to her that at those prices they wouldn’t need to be terribly busy to survive. Oysters from the Isle of Man, beef from Scotland and cheese from Wales. While she studied the menu, she stole a glance at Oliver from under her lashes. He hadn’t so much as acknowledged the waiter, never mind thanked him. As she handed the menu back, she once again thanked the waiter and noticed that her companion barely concealed an irritated glance.

  ‘Will you have the oysters and steak?’ he asked.

  For a second, Emily considered his words. He was suggesting what she should eat and had not trusted her with the wine list. He was, of course, quite right not to. Emily had no idea which wine to choose. She just would have preferred it if he could have involved her a little more in the decision. ‘No thank you.’

  Oliver raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘I would like the soup, please, followed by the chicken.’

  *

  Dessie had been helping to clean up the bom
bed-out church. His mother had been christened there and it had been attended by every member of her family. He had seen the notice in the Echo calling for volunteers to help clear the rubble and to sign the petition to rebuild the church and return it to its original glory.

  He walked down Bold Street. At the bottom, he would turn left and carry on down Church Street to the hospital before he collected the pies and made his way to Biddy’s. He wanted to check on the lads’ rota first. Two were leaving to work for a firm of builders who were taking on in town. It had been years, but Liverpool Corporation had finally begun to distribute contracts for the new council houses to be built in Bootle. The Irish were once again flooding through the gates, ready to labour in gangs on the roads and houses. His lads were all Irish. He knew he was in danger of losing them to the rebuilding of Liverpool. More money to be made and excitement to be had that way than from stoking boilers or delivering clean linen.

  He had no idea what it was that made him look through the restaurant door. It was a Sunday night. Town was quiet. Liverpool, famous for its partygoers and music lovers, radiated an atmosphere of calm, following the Saturday-night storm. He sidestepped a tankard of ale, standing upright on the pavement, half full, left and lost by some poor reveller the night before.

  Music wafted out from an upstairs window above a tailor’s shop and he reached the restaurant door just as a couple heading towards him on the other side of the road began to cross towards it. He turned his head to look into the golden light and away from the gloom of the street, and that was when he saw her. There was no mistaking her. Dessie stopped dead. She was no longer a young woman, but Dessie always thought, with each year that passed, that she had improved with age. Her cheeks were soft and pillowy and not like his wife’s had been, gaunt and hollow. He watched as Mr Gaskell threw back his head and laughed, just before he reached out and placed his hand on top of hers.

  The pain was so sharp that Dessie felt as though his heart had been pierced.