The House By Princes Park

by Maureen Lee

  ‘I can’t stand cats,’ Beth said when she came home and was informed of Tiger’s presence.

  ‘You’d better learn to stand this one because he’s staying.’

  ‘What if the woman he was left with comes looking for him?’

  ‘It’s taken weeks, possibly months, for him to get in such a state. If anyone was going to look for him, they’d have done it long before.’

  ‘Ruby?’ Martha Quinlan said in the tone of voice of someone about to ask a favour.

  ‘Yes, Martha?’ Ruby rolled her eyes and wondered what the favour was.

  ‘You know Mrs Wallace who has a wart on her nose and who sometimes comes to meetings? Well, her granddaughter, Connie, lives in Essex, but she’s coming to work in Rootes’ Securities in Speke and needs somewhere to live. Her gran can’t take her, the poor dear only lives in lodgings.’

  ‘What d’you want me to do, build her a house?’

  Martha grinned. ‘No, luv, put her up. You’ve plenty of room. The extra few bob a week will come in handy, won’t it? Connie’s giving up a wonderful job in order to serve her country. She’s a beautician in a posh London hotel, the Ritz, or something. She wanted to join the forces but they wouldn’t take her because her sight’s not too good, so she decided on munitions instead.’

  ‘Don’t they have munition factories down south?’

  ‘Of course, luv, but her mam’s dead, her dad’s been transferred to Scotland for some reason, and her brother’s in the Army. She thought it would be nice to be near her gran.’

  ‘OK,’ Ruby said with a sigh. It was a waste of time trying to refuse. Her patriotic duty would be called into question and she’d be made to feel guilty. ‘Will she expect to be fed?’

  ‘Only breakfast and an evening meal, luv.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Mrs Hart’s linen cupboard was raided and a bed prepared for Connie Wallace whose bespectacled, perfectly made-up face had to be seen to be believed. She was a plain woman made striking by the skilful use of cosmetics. Her eye shadow was two different shades of blue and the lashes were so long that Ruby and Beth were green with envy until told that they were false. Rouge was applied with a brush and lipstick with a pencil. ‘They’re from America,’ she said. There was a beauty spot on her chin when she remembered.

  Her spectacles were shaped like bird’s wings, the frames black flecked with gold, also from America. ‘I’m terrified of breaking them, because they can’t be replaced till this ruddy war’s over.’

  In the cellar during the raids, she taught Ruby and Beth how to apply make-up so it showed off their best features, though the exercise usually ended in shrieks of laughter.

  By now, the evidence of the damage caused by the raids was all around them. Houses had been replaced by mounds of rubble or just the roofless skeleton left, like a grotesque statue, the sky visible though the gaps that had once been windows. Churches had been damaged, hospitals, schools, cinemas, numerous factories. Hundreds of people had been killed and hundreds more injured.

  Ruby wondered how she, how everyone, managed to carry on. Yet somehow they did, and mainly, they managed to do it with a smile and a cheerfulness that was catching, including Ruby herself. She had no choice. It was either that or be miserable and admit defeat, and there was no way Ruby O’Hagan would do either.

  In November, two things happened, both totally unexpected.

  Beth always arrived home with the Liverpool Echo, which Ruby would read if she had time. The paper wasn’t only concerned with war news. Other things, mundane in comparison, were happening on the domestic front. People were getting married for one, and having their wedding photographs published. Ruby never read the weddings page, but one night a man’s vaguely familiar face caught her eye as she was about to turn over. Interested, she scanned the text beneath.

  ‘The marriage took place last Saturday at the Holy Name church, Fazakerley, between Mr William Simon Pickering and Miss Rosemary Louise McNamara...’

  Her insides did a somersault and she read no more.

  Bill Pickering! He wasn’t dead. Jacob hadn’t killed him after all. He’d been alive all this time.

  ‘What’s the matter, Rube?’ Beth asked in a concerned voice. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

  ‘Nothing.’ It had all been in vain – the running away, the years spent in Foster Court. She could have stayed in Brambles and Jacob could have continued to work on the farm. By now, she would have long grown out of him, she felt sure of that. She bunched the paper in a ball and threw it across the room.

  ‘I thought we were supposed to save waste paper?’ said Beth.

  ‘We are.’ The gesture had got rid of some of her anger. Things that had happened couldn’t be undone. Anyway, had things gone differently, she wouldn’t have had her girls.

  It was Beth who discovered Jacob Veering was dead. A woman at work had shown her a photograph of her brother who was in the Royal Tank Regiment and shortly due home on leave. ‘He was with this other chap in the photey. They had their arms around each other. I couldn’t believe me eyes when I saw the other chap was Jake. “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to him. Me heart was in me mouth. I wasn’t sure what I wanted her to say, perhaps that Jake might be coming home with her brother. Instead, she said, “Oh, that’s Jacob, one of Albie’s friends. Poor chap got killed at Dunkirk.” “Are you sure?” I asked. “Sure I’m sure,” she said. “They were sitting next to each other waiting for a boat to fetch them home when the Jerries strafed the beach. Jacob was hit in the head. He died in Albie’s arms. Albie was dead upset.”

  There was silence for a while, then Ruby sighed. ‘Well, I’m glad he died in someone’s arms.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘What d’you expect me to say, Beth?’

  Beth was stronger now. She didn’t cry. ‘Oh, I dunno. I don’t know what to say meself. I’m surprised I’m not more upset.’

  ‘It means we’re both widows, in a way. We’re only twenty-two, we can have new relationships.’ She thought of Jim Quinlan.

  ‘I don’t want a new relationship,’ Beth said flatly. ‘One was enough.’

  Ruby wondered how she would tell people that the man who was supposed to be her husband was dead. She wasn’t prepared to cry and mope around, pretend to be sad. Though, thinking about it, she was sad. Jacob was the father of her children, the first man she had ever loved. She hadn’t even a photograph to show the girls when they grew up. ‘This woman at work,’ she said, ‘would she loan you the photo to have a copy made?’

  ‘What excuse would I give?’

  ‘Use your imagination for a change and think of one.’ Ruby went upstairs for a little cry.

  By Christmas, they had another lodger, a fussy, mild-mannered young man called Charles Winner from Dun-stable who took very seriously his position as the only man in the household. As an engineering draughtsman, he was in a reserved occupation and wouldn’t be called up. He had moved to Liverpool to be near his girlfriend, Wendy, who was a WREN and had been posted to the Admiralty Operations Room in Water Street. Sometimes, Wendy slept overnight in the small bedroom, the only one now empty – at least Ruby presumed she slept in the small bedroom, but felt in no position to lay down the law if she didn’t.

  It seemed to have got around that Mrs Hart’s house was somewhere people could stay if they were in Liverpool overnight, a few days, a week – Ruby suspected it was all Martha Quinlan’s doing. If Wendy wasn’t occupying the spare room, then more often than not someone else was: a serviceman on leave who couldn’t stay with his family because they’d lost their house in a raid, or whose girlfriend lived in a place where men weren’t allowed. Wives came to see their sailor husbands when their ships docked briefly in Liverpool. When all the bedrooms were in use, people kipped down on a settee in one of the living rooms. They brought their ration books so the coupons could be used to buy the extra food.

  Ruby was up at six every morning preparing half a dozen breakfasts. The
children ate at a later sitting. She was never sure how many people would turn up for tea. During the day she looked after hordes of children, somehow managed to shop, and washed endless sheets and pillowcases so that the rack in the kitchen was always full of washing that took ages to dry and there was never time to iron – by now, Mrs Hart’s linen cupboard had been stripped bare.

  ‘You’d never guess, Tiger,’ Ruby commented more than once, ‘but I swore I’d never enter domestic service.’

  Tiger was his old self again, possibly bigger than before. He was a very understanding cat and purred sympathetically whenever she complained.

  ‘Another thing, I wanted to keep our presence in the house as unobtrusive as possible, but people come and go by the minute and the noise is horrendous. The neighbours must wonder if it’s been turned into a hotel or a school.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Tiger purred.

  Christmas was less than a week away. A box of decorations had been discovered in the cellar, a paper tree. The living room at the back, supposedly private, but which everyone considered they were at liberty to use whenever they pleased, was festooned with chains, the tree decorated with gold and silver stars. Ruby made a Christmas cake that contained no eggs, very little fruit, and had only a thin suggestion of icing. Beth won a pudding in a raffle at work, and Connie had come by a turkey by mysterious means she wasn’t prepared to divulge. Charles Winner was staying in Liverpool because Wendy hadn’t been allowed leave. ‘But she’s coming to dinner on Christmas Day,’ he told Ruby when he presented her with two bottles of sherry.

  ‘That’s nice of her!’ Ruby remarked, seeing herself stuck in the kitchen just like any other day.

  But Beth and Connie, who’d made herself very much at home, offered to do the cooking on the day. ‘You won’t have to lift a finger, Rube,’ Beth promised.

  Ruby began to look forward to the festivities. Suddenly, she didn’t mind the house being full. For the first time, there was money to buy presents for the children, though finding them in the shops wasn’t easy. She’d managed to get Greta and Heather a doll each, little shopping baskets, hairslides. There was a wheelbarrow for Jake, a toy bus, and a lovely enamelled compact for his mother. She rubbed her hands together excitedly. This year, Christmas was going to be the gear.

  Apart from a few light raids that had caused little damage, December had been remarkably free from the attentions of the Luftwaffe. Liverpool breathed a sigh of relief and everyone anticipated a peaceful holiday.

  But they were wrong.

  Five days before Christmas, the siren went at half-past six. Tiger, terrified, immediately made for the cellar. The children had eaten, but Ruby, Beth and Connie were in the middle of a meal. Charles wasn’t yet home. They followed the big cat down the narrow wooden stairs with their food. When Ruby finished, she went back for the tea she wasn’t prepared to waste, raid or no raid. She was about to return, when the front door opened and Charles came in accompanied by Wendy and another WREN, a pretty blonde. ‘This is Rhona. She’s on her way to see a friend, but I thought she could shelter with us until the raid’s over. It’s probably just a light one, but it’s not worth taking the risk.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Of course, I don’t mind.’ Ruby gave her a warm, welcoming smile. ‘You’d best get down the cellar quick. Take the pot and I’ll fetch more cups.’

  There’d never been a raid like it before. The world became one large, never-ending explosion. The house shook, dust drifted from the ceiling. Shut away as they were in the bowels of the earth, the sound of breaking glass could still be heard, the urgent clamour of fire engines, the occasional scream.

  Even the children were frightened, not interested in games or stories tonight. The grown-ups hardly spoke, but looked at each other, biting their lips, when a bomb shrieked to earth, wondering if they were to be its target.

  During a lull, Ruby went upstairs to make more tea, not caring if she used the entire week’s ration. She drew back the curtains and looked at the crimson sky shot with streaks of black smoke. A fire crackled nearby. It was like a scene from hell.

  ‘It looks as if it’s been soaked with blood, the sky,’ said a voice. It was Charles. ‘I’ve come for the sherry,’ he explained. ‘I thought it might cheer us up a little. I know where I can get more tomorrow.’

  ‘If there is a tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow always comes, Ruby.’

  ‘It might not come for us,’ Ruby said harshly. ‘It’s no good pretending everything’s going to be all right, being positive, because we’ve lost control of our lives. In the past, no matter how bad things got, I’d grit me teeth and make them better. But now I can’t. No one can.’

  ‘In that case, you’ve just got to grit your teeth and hope for the best. Forget about the tea for now, let’s have sherry instead. And I got you a box of chocolates for Christmas. I’ll fetch them too.’

  It cheered her that he’d thought to buy her a present. She’d got nothing for him or Wendy. She’d buy something – tomorrow!

  Charles said, ‘I don’t know if it’s just my imagination, but I can hear singing.’

  ‘I’ll just get some glasses.’ Mrs Hart had some in her china cabinet. The children could have lemonade.

  They returned to the cellar, where Rhona had removed her tunic, loosened her tie, and was leading a sing-song in a fine soprano voice. ‘Good King Wenceslas looked down, on the feast of Stephen...’

  Greta and Heather had livened up miraculously. They were singing along, bright-eyed and full of smiles. Jake didn’t know the words, but stared intently at Rhona’s pretty face and tried to mouth them. Beth glanced at Ruby and winked. ‘Isn’t this the gear!’ she whispered. ‘I can’t hear the bombs any more.’

  The sherry and lemonade were poured, the chocolates opened, spirits were lifted. Connie and Wendy danced an Irish jig and Ruby sang, ‘Yours till the stars lose their glory’, astonished to find she knew all the words. Greta and Heather recited a poem they’d learnt from Roy Deacon, unaware it was full of innuendo and double entendres. The audience laughed until their sides ached and drank more sherry.

  ‘Do your impersonation of Paul Robeson,’ Wendy urged Charles, so he sang ‘Old Man River’ in a deep, mournful voice that made them want to cry. Rhona cheered them up again with a chorus of carols.

  Outside, bombs fell, the earth was being shaken to pieces, but they didn’t hear, or pretended not to hear. They were too loud, too boisterous, needing to shut out reality in favour of make-believe.

  It meant they didn’t notice the candle flicker when the cellar door opened, or see the young man wearing an air force blue greatcoat limp down the stairs. ‘Evening folks,’ the young man said, bringing the entertainment to an abrupt halt. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting, but do you mind if I join in?’

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Ruby, but she knew before the words were out of her mouth. She hadn’t met him before, but a photograph of the curly-haired young man with the same mischievous, smiling features was on the sideboard upstairs.

  It was Max Hart.

  ‘This is Max,’ she said quickly to the assembled company, praying he wouldn’t demand to know what they were doing in his mother’s house. But he didn’t look as if he was about to make a scene. Instead, despite his smile, he appeared bone weary, his young face creased with exhaustion. ‘Max, meet Beth, Connie, Charles...’ She reeled off the introductions.

  ‘Take your coat off, luv, and sit down,’ said Connie.

  Removing the coat was easier said than done. Max could hardly raise his arms. Charles sprang forward to help.

  ‘My God!’ Charles gasped when the coat was off, revealing the blue-grey uniform underneath. ‘You’re a Flight Lieutenant and you’ve got the Distinguished Flying Cross.’ He shook Max’s hand vigorously, close to tears. ‘This country owes everything to young men like you. You’re the bravest of the brave. What was it Churchill said about the battle in the skies? “Never have so many owed
so much to so few.” ’

  Max Hart blushed uncomfortably. ‘Would you mind if I had a drink?’

  ‘It’s only sherry,’ said Ruby.

  He managed a tired grin. ‘That’ll do fine.’ He went on to explain it had taken two days to get from his base in Kent using public transport or hitching lifts. ‘An ambulance at one point. In Bedford, a chap lent me his bike to get as far as Northampton where I left it with his cousin. The cousin used his entire petrol ration to take me to Birmingham.’ He’d slept on a train and had arrived in Liverpool only an hour ago and, ignoring the danger, began to walk. ‘Then this Civil Defence chap stopped and gave me a lecture and a lift. I’ve got ten days’ leave on account of the fact I sprained my damn ankle. I was determined to spend Christmas in my own home, don’t ask why.’ He grinned again. ‘I think I wanted to be assured there were a few remnants of normality left in the world, but instead I found Liverpool being blown to pieces and the house apparently haunted. It gave me a shock, I can tell you, when I heard singing from the cellar.’

  ‘Didn’t your mum tell you she said Ruby could have the house while she went to America?’ Connie enquired.

  ‘It must have slipped her mind,’ Max replied with a straight face. ‘Look, you were having a good time before I showed up. Please go on. It sounded fun, better any day than listening to the noise outside.’ The bombardment was continuing unabated.

  Rhona said, ‘This is especially for you,’ and began to sing, ‘There’s a boy coming home on leave...’

  By midnight, they had begun to wilt, having run out of songs and energy, though the Luftwaffe showed no sign of wilting and the bombs continued to rain down. Thankfully, the children had gone to sleep. They talked instead.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Max said quietly to Ruby. ‘The pawnshop runner. Mum said you were like an exotic stick insect.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not!’

  ‘I’d take it as a compliment if I were you.’ He winked. ‘Out of interest, what are you doing here?’