The mutual admiration society spent the next few minutes discussing Miss Morrison’s will. They wondered how Tom Bingley knew, because the old lady would never have used him as a witness to the document. His attempt to pursue Eileen in this house had not gone down well, and she had even changed her doctor to underline her displeasure.
‘I’m not going to tell her I know,’ Eileen decided. ‘So if she changes her mind, she doesn’t need to feel bad. What I never had, I’ll never miss. Yes, it would be lovely to have a second home over here, but I’d rather she lived a lot longer. She worked hard for years in that school of hers. I read somewhere that we’ll soon have television. She’d love that.’
Spoodle had discovered the fire. It was warm, bright and cheerful. He tried very hard to sit like a proper dog, two legs at the front, two at the back, skimpy little tail supposedly acting as a rudder. His attempt to achieve a level of dignity failed parlously. The tired pup found he had too many feet, and that they were unnecessarily large. They also preferred to line up, a front paw, a back one, then two more in similar order. With a tail that was as much use as a piece of thin string, he fell over sideways, rolled, scrambled to his silly feet and tried again.
Eileen was hysterical; even Keith found tears streaming down his face. This was better than a Charlie Chaplin movie. Like Charlie, Spoodle could not walk in a straight line, was unable to sit in a normal fashion, and didn’t do stairs. Like Charlie, he was going to be eternally forgivable.
The young dog eyed them lugubriously. He scratched an ear to prove his nonchalance, then repeated his trick. Determined to demonstrate to humanity that all he did was carefully planned, he spread himself out on the rug, all four legs stretched, nose in his front paws. Within seconds, he was snoring gently.
Eileen mopped her face. ‘The dog’s a fool,’ she said.
‘Yes. Dry me as well, please. He’s a clown, Eileen. I think he’ll fit in with us very well. Very well indeed.’
Hilda was preparing notes for a history lesson to be given in the New Year. But she couldn’t concentrate on the task. Something was wrong, but she had no real idea what, and she felt seriously silly. Phil, Rob and Bertie were all upstairs and safe. The oldest boy was probably continuing the angry, sweeping charcoal drawing he had begun earlier. So fierce were his strokes that he’d gone through half a box already. Charcoal snapped easily, but so did Phil’s heart. No. There could have been nothing easy about seeing broken shops, crushed homes and haunted people. Scotland Road. Would good old Scottie ever be the same again?
She cast an eye over the plague and the Fire of London before placing the papers in a bureau. It was no use. She couldn’t focus on rats, fleas and Pudding Lane. Perhaps she’d feel better if she joined Nellie in the kitchen.
Nellie was a bit glum. She was sitting at the huge table with a newspaper and a mug of cocoa. Elsie had branched out into firelighters, wooden kindling and news agency. A van came through once a week, so they got a daily and a local paper, both on the same day. Some thinned out women’s magazines completed Nellie’s collection of literature, and she buried herself nightly in lurid tales of love, reports of crimes local and national, and a weekly account of the war’s progress. Sometimes, the two women listened to the wireless in the evenings, but neither felt up to it tonight.
Nellie looked up from her Recipes in Wartime pamphlet. ‘You still prowling about, love? What’s up? Another cup of cocoa, eh? Have you seen my magazines? There’s only about twelve pages. War? Hmmph.’
Hilda Pickavance refused cocoa. ‘I feel strange.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No, nothing like that. It’s the light outside – the sky. It’s not right.’
Nellie jumped up. ‘Then we must put it right. Come on.’
They both donned hats, coats, scarves and gloves before stepping out into this last cold evening before Christmas Eve. Tomorrow would be all cooking and baking, so they needed to be early in their beds. ‘Did you hear a thud a few minutes ago?’ Hilda asked.
‘I don’t think so. I was raking ashes and damping down for the night in the kitchen. What sort of thud?’
‘A thud, that’s all. Like when a tree gets cut down.’
But Nellie hadn’t heard a thing. ‘It’s red,’ she announced when she looked up. ‘But not for shepherd’s delight, not this late.’
They moved round the house and found the true source of colour. ‘Bloody hell,’ Nellie groaned. ‘It’s Liverpool, isn’t it?’
‘Wrong direction, Nellie. That’s Manchester. And the fires nearer to us are in Bolton.’
They stood very still on Hilda’s high ground and watched a war that had never encroached before. They had seen few planes, had heard no bombs, no sirens. Down there, in a major city and in a huge town, people were dying. ‘I feel sick,’ Nellie said. ‘It’s so real for the poor buggers down there.’
‘There’s something else,’ Hilda whispered. ‘Something nearer.’ She didn’t know what she meant. Hilda Pickavance didn’t believe in sixth sense or any of that nonsense, but her spine tingled and small hairs on her arms were standing to attention. It was the cold, she decided. She had gooseflesh, and it had probably arrived due to a mix of terror and frost.
Nellie stared hard at fires and at a reddened sky. So that was war. She’d been moaning because her magazines were on the thin side, but people not too far away were being maimed and killed. ‘Hilda?’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s the point of war? Why does it have to happen?’
Hilda did her best to explain about Poland, European Jews, the right to defend one’s country, the evils of extreme politics at both ends of the spectrum—
Another stick of bombs hit Manchester. As they landed, they threw up clouds of debris, some of which could well be human flesh and bone. ‘I hate bloody Germans,’ Nellie spat.
‘Bitte?’
Both women turned and saw his outline.
He smiled tentatively. ‘Plane in field,’ he said. ‘No man, no woman die. I stop engine and jump. I am come to stay – prison camp, I care not. For me is finish and Reich has another plane gone. Mine friend, he has done same somewhere else. We are no Nazi.’
‘He’s a bloody German,’ Nellie roared.
With the help of a torch, Hilda gazed into a perfect face, well chiselled and handsome. ‘Yes, Nellie. He’s surrendering. We must take him inside. He has every right to surrender, and we have a duty to treat him well. He is a prisoner of war and a visitor to our country.’
‘Are you sure? I can’t understand a word. We might be killed in our beds. He could be one of them spies.’ She raised her voice as if she were addressing a very deaf person. ‘Have you got a gun?’
‘Nein. And this is not number, is meaning no.’
‘You are in England now. Talk English when you do your words and numbers.’
Hilda forbade herself to smile. This young man’s English was easy to understand, while Nellie’s was variable at best.
They helped him inside, because he had a damaged ankle. ‘You know what I must do now?’ Hilda asked when he was seated by the fire.
He nodded. ‘Danke. I fly no more. I was fighter pilot.’
She spoke to Nellie. ‘Deal with that damper, please. He’s frozen to the bone.’ She left to use the phone.
Nellie refreshed the fire, made him a cup of tea with three sugars, eased the boot off the painful foot and cut away the sock. ‘This will hurt less than pulling,’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘It’s not broke.’ She picked up a dead match and snapped it. ‘Not broke,’ she repeated, her head shaking vigorously. While binding his ankle, she suddenly found herself weeping. Nellie wasn’t a regular weeper, so she knew she must be unusually upset, though she couldn’t think why. Yes, she could. He looked about three years older than Phil. This baby had flown planes to protect German bombers.
The young man touched her hair. ‘Thank you, good Frau. The tears of an Englander will clean me. War is bad. Many, many Germans are not wanting
this, but we dare not say because of him.’ He placed a finger under his nose to act as moustache, and performed a travesty of the Nazi salute. ‘He is crazy.’
It wasn’t the boy’s fault. The culprit was only the uniform, not the person inside it. No soldier, sailor or airman could be blamed for the sick politics of his country. ‘Your plane didn’t blow up. I didn’t hear you.’
‘Fighter,’ he said. ‘Small plane. I cut engine and jumped. Plane is in field. No explosion, but tell people stay away from it.’
She dried her eyes. ‘Where’s your parachute?’
‘In a …’ He sought the right word. ‘Where cows go at night.’
‘In a cowshed? You’ve parked a load of silk where it can get covered in shit?’
He smiled again. ‘I know what shit is meaning. No shit. Is on … shelf with chugs.’
‘Chugs?’
He made a pouring movement with his right hand. ‘Chugs.’
‘Jugs, love. They’re jugs.’ She took his hand. ‘Don’t tell nobody else,’ she begged, her words separated by seconds. ‘I can get two wedding dresses out of that – three if the brides are thin.’ She bit her lip. ‘What happens to you now, son?’
‘Questions by Englander army police, prison to end of war.’
‘Bloody shame.’
‘No. They will find me work, and I will be careful. Other prisoners must not know I choose to surrender. My name Heinrich. This in English is Henry. My friend who jump near city of Chester, he is Günter. His plane did explode, but away from buildings. I am hope he is safe. I am hope he find good people like you. So. I am Heinrich Hoffmann, and friend is Günter Friedmann. We are having rear gunners, and they jump when we tell them plane is not work properly. They are not like us; they both believing in Hitler. So. Your name?’
‘Nellie Kennedy, and she’s Hilda Pickavance.’
When Hilda returned, she discovered the hardy perennial named Helen Kennedy holding hands with the enemy. ‘Excuse me,’ she said before leaving the room once more.
‘She come, she go,’ Henry remarked.
She came again with Phil in tow. ‘Draw that,’ she ordered. ‘And when this bloody mess is over, your work will teach people that we were not at odds with the German people. We are fighting the Reich, as is this prisoner of war. The man chose to be here, Phil.’
Phil scanned the scene and committed it to memory. ‘I will,’ he said before marching up to the so-called enemy. ‘Welcome to England. I’m Phil.’
‘Heinrich – Henry in your language. I was in Luftwaffe and I choose to be prisoner in England. My grandfather has small part Jewish blood from his grandfather. If SS find him, he may die in camp.’
They didn’t even knock when they came for Heinrich. The rear door flew inward and revealed two redcaps with rifles ready to fire, and an unarmed civilian policeman.
‘On your knees,’ shouted one of the military policemen.
Nellie released the hand of her new-found friend and marched up to the real invaders. A loaded rifle was pressed against her stomach, but the ferocity of her stare forced the bearer to lower his weapon. ‘I should bloody well think so,’ she roared. ‘This is a private house on British soil. The German lad here crashed his plane on purpose so he could surrender. Harm one hair, and I’ll spread you so far across the newspapers that you’ll look like jam.’
‘Only doing our job, ma’am.’
‘And he’s only surrendering. You’ll find his mate somewhere outside Chester – he’s dumped his plane, too. Their gunners baled out, but they are Nazis. These two pilots should have a bloody medal, never mind flaming guns pointing at them. You want to watch yourselves, you do. Jessie Turnbull’s husband from the Edge went AWOL and finished up in the loony bin. He wasn’t fit to fight, but did you care? Tried to kill himself. His mam lives down yonder, and so does his wife. Yous lot want talking about.’
Leaning on Phil, Heinrich hopped across the room. He held out his hands to be cuffed. ‘God save your King,’ he said.
‘Are you taking the wee-wee?’ the taller redcap asked.
Hilda decided to be in charge. ‘No, he is not. His grandfather is part Jewish, and although this young pilot’s Jewish blood is greatly diluted, he can’t in conscience take part in the war. The top brass had a meeting, or so I’m told, and decided to allow some part-Jews to be Germans. He’ll have been forced to swear an oath. For him, that oath was a lie. I am proud to know him. Our own royal family are part German.’
‘You what?’ The civilian policeman was scratching his head.
In Hilda’s unspoken opinion, some people didn’t deserve an education. ‘When you have done with your questions, you may return him here if you wish. I will vouch for him, and for his friend, should you find him.’
Heinrich nodded. ‘Günter Friedmann near Chester. He does what I do.’
When they had left, Hilda and Nellie sat close to the fire. For over ten minutes, neither spoke. Then Nellie, who had been thinking hard, aired her opinion. ‘He’s just another evacuee, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, dear. That’s exactly what he is. They had better be good to him, that’s all I can say. He was just a boy, Nellie. Their children are killing our children, and vice versa.’
‘Merry blooming Christmas, eh, Hilda?’
‘I think we deserve a small brandy, Nell.’
‘Don’t bother. Just bring the bottle and a couple of straws. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be unconscious after all that.’
Mam had gone all evangelical. Was that the right word? She’d delivered a sermon down the phone this morning, and its title had been ‘Germans Are Not All Bad’. She’d met a German with a face like an angel, he’d ditched his plane on purpose in the middle of a field, and there were several yards of parachute silk, did Eileen want it? Oh, and happy Christmas Eve.
Eileen chuckled and shook her head in mock despair. She remembered lecturing her mother on this very subject, and Nellie Kennedy’s opinion had changed completely. Mam got worse, she really did. She’d been going on about writing to Mr Churchill regarding the attitude displayed by members of the military police. The words still echoed. ‘Police? Bloody police? They couldn’t direct traffic, couldn’t organize a kiddy’s birthday party. Have you got Mr Churchill’s address?’
‘We gave up corresponding for the duration, Mam,’ had been Eileen’s reply. ‘He’s in a bunker somewhere down London way. Oh, and he’s a bit busy these days.’
Spoodle yapped. Twenty-four hours in this house, and he’d already worked out how to get the two-legged to open the back door. His method of egress seemed unique. Having failed thus far to find his centre of gravity, he had fallen off the step a few times and landed on his head. So he shuffled round, allowing his fat little bottom to hit the ground first. Eileen could not believe the cleverness of so young a creature. Seven weeks old, and he knew already when to turn his back on a cruel world.
He waddled off into his pen, did his duty, returned to the back door. Coming back in was not dignified. He scrabbled and struggled until the woman lifted him in. But he would manage it soon; he was nothing if not dogged in his determination. It was all right here, warm, plenty of grub, nice naps on the old lady’s bed. He panted a smile at Eileen and went off in search of trouble.
Right. It was now or never. Keith had gone to help builders who were still propping up a few houses down the road. Mel was upstairs writing about all the bombs that had fallen in the river last night. Keith had heard it from one of the carpenters; last night had been Manchester’s turn for the bigger, nastier bombs. Now, Eileen would go and do what she had always done for her children – her best. She removed her apron and smoothed the front of her best green suit. The blouse, made from remnants bought by Keith from Bolton Market, was a triumph in pale cream. Her face was on, her shoes were polished; she was ready. The skirt’s waistband was a bit tight, but she’d manage.
She went upstairs to inform Mel that she was in temporary charge of Miss Morrison. ‘Sit and talk to her. I�
��ll be back in time for tablets. Take Spoodle in with you. She likes Spoodle.’
‘Where are you going, Mam?’
‘Last minute shopping,’ was the delivered lie.
‘Have we any food points left? Or any coupons?’
‘A few.’
‘Right.’ Mel jumped up and stated her intention to find the dog. ‘You should have called him Colander instead of Spoodle. And don’t lie, Mam. You’d never go shopping in those clothes. You’re going to see Gloria.’
‘Get yourself downstairs,’ Eileen said. ‘You’re in charge, and I’m off.’
Outside at last, Eileen straightened her hat and strode determinedly towards her goal. There were things that could be sorted out only by a woman, but this time she was going to hire back-up. She needed Marie. His car wasn’t there. ‘Thank goodness for the sick,’ Eileen muttered as she opened the gate.
Marie answered the door. ‘Hello, Eileen.’ At least they were now on first name terms. They often met in shops, and Eileen delivered her knitting to the WVS on a regular basis, so they were in contact quite frequently.
‘Is Gloria in?’
‘Upstairs.’ Marie widened the doorway to allow her visitor to enter. ‘Perhaps you and I should talk first. What a mess this is, and at the so-called festive season, too. Come through, I’ve made you a small Christmas cake. Don’t ask about ingredients, or I might end up in jail.’
They got through the niceties in seconds – the lovely cake, the weather, rationing, bombs, the propping up of houses. Marie took a sip of tea. ‘She’s as miserable as sin up there in her room.’
‘Snap.’
‘And Peter’s no better. Our girls were such good friends, Eileen. I even had a dream that Gloria would pull up her socks and go to university with Mel. They’re so suited, and they could look after each other. Then Peter put a spanner in the works. Oh, I do hope he’s not going to be like—’ She cut herself off abruptly.
‘Like his father?’ Eileen finished on behalf of her hostess.
Marie nodded sadly. After a brief silence, she decided to fill Eileen in about all that had happened in recent months. She had learned about her own past and was now aware of all the facts. An uncle, long dead, had stolen her childhood. Marriage had not suited her, and Tom had been a brute. ‘He wanted you. It was written all over his face that first day – remember? We had Madeira cake?’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 67
