by Maureen Lee
The first thing she noticed when she stood upright was that it was so bright. When she’d entered the shop it had been dark. Now it was bright, because there was no window, no door, no front to the shop at all, and no building opposite to shut out the light.
No Prince Albert!
The shop was full of chunks of masonry. Dark green tiles glittered like emeralds in the rubble. Grey dust hung in the air. The Prince Albert lay in ruins before her. It lay in the shop and in the street outside, blown into a million pieces.
The crying child was Shirl. She cried still, across the street, standing in the rubble, holding her baby sister and crying for her mam.
Josie regarded the destruction with dull, uncomprehending eyes. A bell clanged. A fire engine was approaching, or it might have been an ambulance, she didn’t know. People appeared, their faces fierce and angry, and began to pull at the debris with their bare hands.
And as it slowly began to make sense, Josie felt curiously empty, withered, like Tommy’s arm, as if her heart and soul, her spirit, had flown up to heaven to be with Mam.
Machin Street
1940–1951
1
After the explosion, Josie was taken to a still, silent place where there were nuns. She refused to give her name. Either she couldn’t speak, or she wouldn’t speak. No one was sure, not even Josie.
The sisters were very kind. They blessed her, fed her, put her to bed, dabbed her cut hands with iodine and said hundreds of Hail Marys, rosary beads threaded through their worn fingers. They provided her with a red gingham frock much too small, and a cardigan much too big, because the clothes she had arrived in were dirty and badly torn. Josie had no idea how long she stayed in the silent place. She knew she was alive, but she felt dead.
One morning, Sister Bernadette, who looked about a hundred, came to Josie’s tiny white room, with its iron bed and wooden crucifix on the wall. Maude was with her. She wore a dreadful felt hat shaped like a tin helmet, and a moth-eaten fur coat which Mam had said privately looked as if it was made from rats.
‘That’s her!’ Maude exclaimed. ‘That’s Josie Flynn.’ She fell upon Josie with open arms. ‘Oh, luv!’
‘I’m afraid she has lost the power of speech,’ Sister Bernadette murmured.
At this, Maude gave a little shriek, seized Josie’s shoulders and violently shook her, as if the power of speech could be restored if she was rattled hard enough. Then she burst into tears. ‘She’s the spitting image of her poor mam, you know, Mabel – may the good Lord rest her soul.’ She bowed her head and made the sign of the cross.
According to the whispered conversation that took place between Maude and Sister Bernadette in the corridor, not everyone had died in the Prince Albert. Most customers had been pulled out of the wreckage alive. But Mam, in the lavatory, in the yard where the bomb had fallen, had taken the full blast. Josie had known the very second it happened. She had felt it in her heart.
Two children had been killed. Well, the building had virtually landed on top of them. One a boy of ten, the other his sister, only two. And, would you believe, their mam, who had suffered only a few scratches, had been seen in another pub the next night, laughing fit to bust.
Sister Bernadette said that, no, she wouldn’t have believed it, ever, had she not heard it directly from Maude’s lips. But she would remember the woman in her prayers, for she was obviously more in need of God’s love than most.
‘Huh!’ Maude said disgustedly, and went on to inform the sister that the bobbies had been round to Huskisson Street looking for Josie because they’d found her identity card in her poor mam’s handbag. That was when they’d learned that Mabel was dead. The whole house was stunned. ‘The house is flats,’ Maude went on, as if it needed an explanation. ‘Quite superior flats.’
But where was Josie? Nobody knew. Lines of communication had become all tangled between the bobbies and the rescue services. The woman from the sweetshop was somehow involved.
‘Is there someone who will take the child – a relative?’ Sister Bernadette enquired gently.
‘Well, Mabel had a sister living in Machin Street off Penny Lane. I don’t know what number. Mind you, I’m not sure if she’s fit … her husband’s a …’ Maude was becoming as tangled as the lines of communication. ‘Knowing Ivy, not that I do, mind, but from what I’ve heard, she might not take her.’ She began to sob again. ‘She’s such a lovely kid, I’d take her meself, like a shot I would. But me job wouldn’t allow it. I work these dead funny hours, see.’
‘The authorities will find her, this Ivy. They will sort everything out,’ Sister Bernadette said with quiet confidence.
The voices grew fainter as the women walked away. Josie crept over to the door and listened, because she wanted to know everything there was to know about Mam.
‘The remains … hardly recognisable. Well, you can imagine, can’t you, Sister? The girls … the other residents, that is … making a collection … couldn’t abide the thought of Mabel going to a pauper’s grave … only four and sixpence in her purse …’
Then the voices faded altogether and Josie heard no more.
Aunt Ivy was as nice as could be, almost fawning, with the woman in a green uniform who took Josie to Machin Street by car two days later. Josie had been told the woman’s name, but forgot it immediately. The sky was heavy with dark grey clouds and it was drizzling. The windscreen wipers weren’t working properly, and the woman kept tut-tutting when she pressed buttons and nothing happened. She crouched over the wheel, trying to see through water-streaked glass.
They were expected at precisely half past two. The woman had been to see Aunt Ivy the day before to discuss Josie’s future. ‘She’s looking forward to having her pretty little niece to live with her,’ the woman said on the way. ‘She hasn’t any children of her own, so you’re all the more welcome. You’ll like her, dear. She’s very nice.’
Josie didn’t answer. Her throat felt as tight as a fist. Perhaps she would never talk again.
‘We’re turning into Machin Street, Josie. This is where you’re going to live.’
I don’t want to! She didn’t want to live anywhere if it wasn’t with Mam, particularly not in one of these red brick houses with square bay windows and sentry-box porches that made the street look like a fortress.
The car stopped. ‘Here we are.’ The woman got out. She came round and opened Josie’s door, saying kindly, ‘Don’t look so frightened, dear. I’m sure you’re going to be very happy with your auntie.’
Aunt Ivy must have been watching through the window as the door opened and she came out and waited for them on the step, clapping her hands and laughing aloud as they approached. ‘You’re right,’ she cried. ‘She’s just like our Mabel.’
‘I never met your sister, Mrs Adams, but one of her friends remarked on the fact to Sister Bernadette.’
‘Come in, darling.’ Aunt Ivy took Josie’s hand. ‘I’m sure you’re going to be very happy in your new home.’
‘That’s what I just told her,’ the woman smiled.
The woman stayed only a few minutes to hand over Mam’s handbag, which looked remarkably undamaged. ‘Josie’s ration book and identity card are in there. The rest of your sister’s possessions are in Huskisson Street. You can collect them any time. Ask for Miss Maude Connelly.’
‘Thank you,’ Aunt Ivy said, ‘but I shan’t bother.’
Teddy! She’d forgotten all about him. Josie thought about Teddy sitting on top of the gas masks. She remembered her new velvet frock, Mam’s bezzie costume, all ready to come to this very house last Sunday after Mass. Her heart threatened to burst with sadness. If only she hadn’t gone to buy sweets that night. If only she’d stayed outside the Prince Albert with Tommy and Nora, then she would be dead. More than anything in the world she wished she were dead so she could be with Mam.
The woman was going, she had a dozen things to do that afternoon. She kissed Josie’s cheek and wished her every happiness, and shook Aunt Ivy’s hand.
‘She’s such a sweet little girl. With a bit of love and kindness, I’m sure her voice will soon come back. It was almost certainly the shock that did it, the shock of the explosion, then losing her mother. I’ve known it happen before. If you have any problems, do get in touch. You have my card. Goodbye, Mrs Adams. Goodbye, Josie.’
‘Tara,’ Aunt Ivy called as she closed the door.
Josie shrank against the row of coats hanging in the hall, because in the space of the few seconds it took to shut the door and turn around Aunt Ivy had become a completely different person. No longer smiling, her eyes glittered alarmingly as she swooped upon her niece, grabbed her arm and led her none too gently into a room at the back of the house. Four chairs with backs like ladders were set around a table covered with a dark green chenille cloth. The sideboard was twice the size of the one in Huskisson Street, with shelves almost reaching the ceiling, full of darkly patterned dishes. Through the window, overlooking a small garden, she could see that a corrugated-iron air raid shelter had been built.
‘Sit down,’ Aunt Ivy said curtly.
‘I want it understood right from the start,’ Aunt Ivy went on in the same curt voice when they were seated at the table, a voice nothing like the one she’d used when the woman was there, ‘that I’m only having you because it’s me Christian duty. Seeing as how you’re me sister’s child, to do otherwise would be a sin. You’ll have a roof over your head, I’ll feed and clothe you, but that’s as far as it goes. Have you got that, miss?’
Josie nodded. Her head was throbbing. A ball of black fear rolled around her stomach, and she was worried she might vomit all over the posh cloth. It was horrible here, she hated it. And she hated Aunt Ivy most of all.
There was nothing about Aunt Ivy to remind her of Mam. It was hard to believe they had been sisters. Neither tall nor short, thin nor fat, her aunt’s eyes were the colour of dirty water. She had yellow, mottled skin and a very low hairline, rigidly straight. When she frowned, as she did now, the black hair and thick black eyebrows almost met. Her hair was neatly parted, neatly waved, and a hairclip secured the longer side. She wore a purple costume with a mauve lacy jumper underneath, high-heeled black shoes and a surprising amount of make-up – almost as much as Irish Rose, though she didn’t use mascara. Her nails were very long and painted scarlet.
‘Don’t you nod at me, miss,’ she snapped. ‘I want a proper answer, using the voice that the good God gave you. You can’t fool me with your silly histrionics. I said, have you got that?’
The fist in Josie’s throat tightened further. She tried to swallow, but it wouldn’t go down. Aunt Ivy pinched her wrist, the scarlet nails dug into her flesh, and her throat felt even tighter. Her eyes smarted with the pain, and she knew that she had to answer to make the pain go away. She swallowed again, almost choking on the fist, and a sound like a grunt was expelled from her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she croaked.
Aunt Ivy released her wrist and her face twisted in an unpleasant smile. ‘I thought as much. It was all put on. Your mam was the same, always putting on an act, full of airs and graces, making eyes at people.’ She placed her arms on the table and leaned forward, so that her face was only inches from Josie’s own. Her breath smelled worse than Maude’s. ‘Now, miss, we’ve got matters to discuss. I’ve taken you in, but I’m not having the neighbours knowing me sister gave birth to a bastard, so we’ve got to make up a story. I want you to listen very carefully. From now on, you’re only five, not six. Understand?’
Josie opened her mouth to argue, but stopped when her aunt reached for her wrist.
‘You’re only five, otherwise they’ll guess why our Mabel left home. A year later, she was old enough to get married, and that makes you legitimate. Her husband, your dad, was killed in the Battle of Britain.’
‘But Mam didn’t have a husband, and I didn’t have a dad,’ Josie protested.
Aunt Ivy impatiently pursed her red lips. ‘I know that, and you know that, but we want the neighbours knowing something different. I told you, this is a story. We’re making it up. Your dad was a rear gunner in the RAF. His name was – John Smith! Mabel met him when she was working as a nanny. I’ll say I didn’t tell anyone because I disapproved, thought she was too young to get married. You stayed living over the water, anywhere will do – Ellesmere Port. Repeat that, miss – Ellesmere Port.’
‘Ellesmere Port,’ Josie said reluctantly. Mam had taught her never to tell lies.
‘And what was your dad?’
‘A rear gunner in the RAF. He died in the Battle of Britain.’
‘And his name?’ Her aunt raised her thick, black brows.
‘John Smith.’ It was all very difficult to take in. ‘Does it mean I’m not Josie Flynn any more?’
‘It most certainly does, miss. From now on, you’re Josephine Smith, and you’re only five.’ Aunt Ivy leaned back in the chair, looking pleased. ‘Good. You’ve got a good memory, like your mam. She could tell me things I’d said years ago, repeat them word for word. It means you should do well at school, like she did. You’ll be starting Monday, it’s all arranged. Sat’day, we’ll go to Penny Lane and get you some clothes.’
She looked through the window at the yard and said thoughtfully, ‘It’s got Flynn on your ration book, so I’ll have to register you with shops that don’t know me, somewhere in town. I’ll go in me dinner hour. It’ll be a nuisance, but the shops round here know everyone’s business.’ She got to her feet.
‘Well, miss, I’m going back to work now. I had to take two hours off because of you, and I’ve got a very responsible job. I’m secretary to the head of Claims at the Mersey Insurance Company. Mr Roberts can’t cope if I’m not there.’ She smirked. ‘I’m never home before six, so someone’s coming round at four to make your tea, but you can learn to do it yourself in future so that we don’t have to bother people. My Vince is on afternoons – it’ll be half ten at least by the time he puts in an appearance.’ She looked keenly at the child crouched over the table. ‘Did you know you’ve got an Uncle Vincent?’
‘Mam talked about him sometimes.’
‘I bet she did, the sly bitch.’ She picked up a crocodile handbag off the sideboard. ‘I’m off. You be good, and if you stay good, behave yourself and keep out me way, we’ll get on just fine. You should be grateful you’ve got a nice, respectable home.’ Her lips twisted in a sneer. ‘I know what your mam was up to. If you’d stayed in Huskisson Street with that crowd of slags, you’d have ended up on the streets in time with your slag of a mam. That’s right, isn’t it, miss?’
Josie was pleating and unpleating the chenille cloth between her fingers, because her hands couldn’t keep still. Her aunt’s words, horrible words, beat against her brain, like tiny nails being tapped into her head. She felt as old as Sister Bernadette, a hundred, as memories returned, scenes flashed before her eyes and she recalled things that Mam had said.
I couldn’t live without my little girl, my Petal.
Hello, Petal. I’m home.
She visualised her beautiful mother standing at the foot of the bed, arms outstretched. She used to think Mam was weak, but last Friday she’d been ready to defend her daughter with her life. Josie firmly believed she would have killed the two men if Irish Rose and the black man hadn’t come. I’ll swing for you, she’d said. Mam was strong. And she would be strong. No one would insult her and get away with it. No one. She wouldn’t be sneered at or called names. And the same applied to her mother – she had no idea what a slag was, but it sounded horrible.
Aunt Ivy was still waiting for a reply. She returned to the table and tapped her foot. Josie, boosted by her newly found confidence, decided that if her wrist was pinched again, then her hand could drop off before she’d admit her aunt was right. She looked up at her, and felt hate burning in her eyes.
‘Don’t you dare call me mam a slag,’ she said slowly in a voice so deep it surprised herself. ‘You’re the one who’s horrible. You chucked her out, she told me. And I’d sooner be living in Huskisson St
reet any day than here.’
‘Oh, Oh, I see.’ Aunt Ivy was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered. Her face darkened. ‘Oh, so now we know where we stand. You know, all I have to do when I get to work is pick up the phone and you’ll be in an orphanage by tomorrow. Don’t imagine I want you here.’
‘I don’t want to be here.’
There was silence. A clock ticked loudly on the wall. It was an extremely grand clock, with peculiar letters instead of numbers on its pearly face.
Aunt Ivy’s face turned dark with anger. She said abruptly, ‘I haven’t time to argue. I’ll see you later, miss.’ Her heels clicked down the hall. She called, ‘We’ll soon see who’s boss.’ The front door closed.
Josie was shaking. She realised she’d won something that she hadn’t wanted to win: a minor battle. But she didn’t want to be at war with Aunt Ivy. Suddenly, all the hideousness, the misery, of the last few days came washing over her and she began to cry. It was the first time she’d cried since her mother died, and the sobs racked her body till it hurt. Her chest was sore, her throat was sore, hot tears scalded her eyes. She couldn’t believe that she would never see Mam again, or hear her voice, touch her, live with her in the attic room. It seemed she was destined to live in Machin Street with Aunt Ivy for ever. The future, so bright a few days ago, stretched ahead of her, black, miserable and lonely. Everything had changed in the twinkling of an eye. She put her hands to her ears, to block out the future, to block out the fact that Mam was dead.
Why, then, could she hear screaming? Not so much screaming as a thin, pathetic wail, as if a small animal were caught in a trap, pleading to be rescued.
The screaming, the wail, came from herself, and she was running round the house, running upstairs, slamming doors, kicking furniture, beating the walls with her fists. And screaming. She pulled at curtains, threw pillows and cushions on the floor. In the bathroom she stopped to vomit in the sink, then rested her forehead on the cool, white porcelain rim.
