Somewhere, bombs were falling, but I was used to that; I had never lived in a world at peace. When the bombers had finished vomiting their contents onto Manchester, a thin, cold drizzle began to fall, wetting me through to the skin within minutes. A warden found me there sometime during that night, but I was not grateful to him, for even in my weakened state I fought to maintain my vigil.
‘I’m waiting for my Dad,’ I insisted.
‘Nay, lass. Tha can’t stop ’ere. Jerry’ll be back, more than likely.’ He picked me up and I hit him full in the face with a clenched fist. ‘I’m stopping. I’m waiting for my Dad. They said he’s dead, but he’s not . . . he’s not. He always comes to the lions. Please let me stay, Mister . . .’ But the man was already carrying me down the steps to a waiting policeman who shone a dimmed torch into our faces.
‘I reckon she’s bloodied tha nose, then, ’Arry.’
‘Aye, she ’as that. But she’s in a fair state, wet through an’ all. Tha’ll ’ave to tek ’er ’ome.’
‘Where dost live, lass?’ the policeman asked.
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘Oh, well then.’ The policeman removed his helmet and scratched his head. ‘Well, in that case, we’ll ’ave to tek thee to t’ Cottage ’Omes.’
The Cottage Homes? That was for children that nobody wanted, that had no mams and dads. Still, if I hadn’t got a dad, I might as well go and live at the Cottage Homes. But then, if I did, I might never see my Mam again. And I did have a Dad. I did.
‘Number 20, Ensign Street,’ I muttered.
‘And what’s yer name?’
‘Annie Byrne.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Four and a half and a bit.’
‘By. Tha’s a clever lass for four and a half and a bit. What are you doing stuck out ’ere with old ’Arry an’ a couple o’ pot lions?’
‘I’ve told you once. I’m waiting for my Dad.’
‘Right. Well where’s yer dad comin’ from?’
I thought hard before answering, ‘Italy, I think.’ The two men looked at one another over my head before Harry handed me to the policeman, whispering as he did so, ‘They’ve told ’er ’e’s dead.’
I stiffened in the policeman’s arms. ‘They haven’t told me nothing. They never tell me nothing. But I heard them saying it.’
There was a lot of rain by this time and the policeman’s muslin-draped torch gave little light, so I wasn’t sure that I saw tears running down his face. He raised his head, craning his neck towards the sky. ‘Sod you,’ he shouted and his voice was high and strange. ‘Sod you bloody bastards.’
Normally, I would have been fascinated by such interesting language, but by this time I was too tired, wet and worried to wonder anew about the anomalies of grown-ups and their rules, one law for them and another for me.
When we finally reached home, my mother was in a state of total hysteria, laughing and crying at the same time, clutching at my hands, slapping me for my naughtiness, then hugging me in her relief. I was shocked to the core when Mrs Hyatt got up from her chair, crossed the room with her waddling gait and hit my mother very hard across the face. I could not understand this at all.
But I was given little time to wonder, for they stripped me off and wrapped me in a warm blanket, then we sat, my mother and I, the policeman and Mrs Hyatt in the four chairs that surrounded the kitchen table.
My mother, after drawing several shuddering breaths, said, ‘Annie, your Dad’s not coming home any more.’ The gaslight flickered and I stared at the spluttering mantle, trying to fix my attention on something – anything other than what was being said to me.
The policeman took my hand in his. ‘Tha’rt a big, fine lass, Annie. Yer dad ’as died for ’is country. When yer older, you’ll be proud of ’im.’
‘Who killed him?’ I asked, of nobody in particular.
‘Why, the Nazis, luv – the Germans,’ answered the bobby.
‘The ones that dropped the bomb on Emmanuel Street and killed Rosie Turner?’
‘Aye, lass.’
‘The ones that dropped the bombs tonight?’
‘That’s it, Annie, they’re the ones.’
A terrible anger rose in me, heaving in my throat like vomit. I fought for breath, pushing away the hands that reached for me. Something in my chest swelled and swelled until I felt I would burst. I had to do something bad, something really bad to let the anger out. Jumping up from the table so quickly that my chair fell away, I flew to the window and threw back the blackout.
Staring up into the rain-filled night sky, I screamed at the top of my voice, ‘Sod you bloody bastards.’ And my mother, who would normally have berated me for such gross misconduct, pulled me into her arms, pressing her tear-soaked face against mine.
‘That’s right, lass,’ she sobbed. ‘You tell ’em.’
2
Neighbours
Apart from the war ending, two things of note happened during the sixth year of my life. Firstly, old Mr Higson from the end house, number 30, died on the outside lavatory. We children received this news with a mixture of sadness and revulsion, the former because he had been kind to us and the latter because we didn’t think anyone should die with his trousers down.
The second event, which was not completely unconnected with the first, was that my mother started courting.
Mr Higson’s youngest son, Eddie, who had been a prisoner of war for several years, was allowed out of the Infirmary to attend the funeral. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, he went with his older brothers to thank the neighbours for their kind thoughts and floral tributes. His appearance appalled and fascinated me. A cadaverous head was not improved by flesh of a yellowish shade which seemed to be stretched like parchment over forehead and chin, only to darken in great shrivelled hollows where cheeks should have been. His eyes were sunken too, small navy-blue dots set well back in circular craters of bone. The nose was prominent, wide-nostrilled and with a gristly bump near the top, while his lips were thin almost to the point of total absence, giving the mouth the appearance of a slit in the fold of some ageing newspaper. This whole death’s head was crowned by an incongruously vigorous mop of crinkly dark hair, all flattened and shiny with grease.
Eddie Higson had never been married. My mother immediately pitied him for his poor condition and took to visiting him at the hospital to which he had had to return immediately after the burial of his father.
During these visits, for which my mother prettied herself up with powder and rouge, I was left with Mrs Hyatt who voiced her disapproval of the affair regularly – not to me, but to her two sons. Freddie, the elder by ten minutes or so, made little response to his mother’s mutterings, while Tom, who always seemed to feel a degree of responsibility towards me, would whisper, ‘Hush, Mam. Not in front of the lass.’
I was fond of Tom. He always brought me sticks of barley sugar on a Friday when he got his wages and sometimes, when I was daydreaming, I imagined that Tom might be my uncle. Not my Dad, nobody could replace my Dad, but Tom was the best uncle anybody might wish for.
I sat in Mrs Hyatt’s rocker by the fire, sucking my stick of barley sugar. Mrs Hyatt took a rice pudding from the range oven and banged it down onto the table between the two men.
‘’E’s got sly eyes. I never did like ’im. When yer dad were alive, ’e never liked ’im neither.’
‘Listen, Ma,’ drawled Freddie. ‘Me Dad never liked nobody, specially when he got near the end. People with cancer isn’t noted for their sense of humour.’
Mrs Hyatt clipped Freddie round the ear with the oven cloth. ‘Bit of respect when you talk about yer dad. And it were nowt to do wi’ cancer. It were to do with . . . well . . . with other things.’ She cast a furtive glance in my direction, then mouthed a few silent words at Freddie and Tom.
‘That was all just talk, Mam. Nothing was ever proved,’ said Tom. ‘And mind what you say. Little pigs have big ears.’
I reacted not at all, pretendi
ng to concentrate on the sticky sweet as I stared into the fire. Tom went on, his voice almost a whisper, ‘Nancy Byrne has her own life to lead now. You can’t go telling her who she must go out with and who she mustn’t. And she knows nothing about . . . all that, I’m sure she doesn’t. What’s more, that tongue of yours will get you into trouble one of these days, mark my words. What you’re saying about Ed . . . about you-know-who is nothing short of slander. Aye, you’ll choke on that tongue, you will.’
Mrs Hyatt bristled visibly, her back straightening, her head moving slightly from side to side as she spoke. ‘Slander, you say? Slander? Why do you think he joined up so bloody quick, eh? ’E’s no flaming ’ero, I can tell you. And who’s to speak up now? Aye, answer me that one – if you can. With ’alf Emmanuel Street flattened and them as was involved cold in their graves? Oh aye, it’s all forgotten now, isn’t it? But I’ve not forgot, the dirty evil bast . . .’
‘Be quiet, Mother.’ Tom stood and raised his hand. ‘Hush your noise. Give the man the benefit of the doubt.’
‘And what about ’er?’ Mrs Hyatt jerked a thumb in my direction.
‘I’ll watch out for her,’ answered Tom.
‘Aye, well. You’d best grow eyes in t’ back of your ’ead, then.’ With this final remark, Mrs Hyatt grabbed her coat from its peg and, picking up a tall white jug from the dresser, announced her intention to go to the outdoor licence for a drop of stout.
A few minutes after her departure, Freddie went out to the air-raid shelter – which he now used as a pigeon house – to tend his prize birds, leaving Tom and me as sole occupants of the kitchen.
I gazed into the fire once more, wondering yet again if I could trust my instincts and place my faith in Tom. Most grown-ups got mad if you asked questions. Those who didn’t get mad treated you as if you were soft in the head or something. But Tom never got mad with me. Would he now? There was only one way to find out. Without turning my head, I asked, ‘Is he a bad man, Tom?’ The clock ticked noisily.
‘I don’t know, Annie.’ This was promising. Adults were usually so positive, so sure of their ground – an admission of indecision could be a step in the right direction.
‘What did he do?’ I asked carefully.
He came slowly round the table, then squatted down on his haunches in front of me. ‘Annie, love – I can’t answer your questions. But I will say this to you. If anything ever worries you – anything at all – you come straight to me. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘You know I was there when you were born. If it hadn’t been for me . . . well, never mind all that now. You’re almost a little sister to me, Annie. If anything ever happens to you . . . if anybody . . . well, you just come straight to your Uncle Tom.’
‘I will.’
‘No matter what?’
‘No matter what, Tom.’
Footsteps in the narrow lobby made him rise to his feet. My mother, flushed and smiling, burst into the room, her eyes sparkling as she cried, ‘He’s coming home Friday, Tom. Ooh, I can’t believe it. He’s near ten stone again – he was only seven and a half when he got back. I’m that excited – we must have a party. And guess what, Annie?’
I stared at my radiant mother as she threw her handbag down onto the table and ripped off a white cotton glove to reveal a narrow gold band with a small shining stone set into its centre. ‘Your Mam’s engaged – you’re going to have a new Dad, Eddie’s going to be your Dad. Isn’t that great news?’
I looked from Tom to my mother, then back to Tom.
‘Well? Have you nothing to say, Annie?’ she cried.
My hands were shaking as I rose to my feet and I gripped the fireguard tightly as I positioned myself next to Tom, leaving the table as a barrier between us and her.
‘He will not be my Dad,’ I heard myself say. My mother, seeming to deflate visibly, sank down onto one of the ladder-backed kitchen chairs.
‘No, I know he won’t be your real Dad, but he’ll be your new Dad.’
‘NO. NO. HE WON’T.’ I stamped my foot on the hearthrug. ‘You are choosing him, Mam. I’m not. If I wanted a new Dad, then I’d choose my own. And I don’t want one, anyway. Especially him. He’s ugly and . . . and . . .’ I groped for words, then Mrs Hyatt’s statement, after echoing in my head for a split second, fell out of my mouth. ‘He’s got sly eyes,’ I announced.
The silence that followed was nearly deafening. My mother looked almost pleadingly at Tom, but he turned his back to reach a pipe from the rack to the side of the range.
‘What can I do with her, Tom?’ For answer, he shrugged his shoulders.
‘She can’t run my life for me. I’m too young to be . . . well, you know, to be without a husband. I need to settle down again and I know he’s right for me. And I might not get another chance, being as I’ve got An . . . being as I’m not on me own.’
Tom stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe before turning to face her. ‘It’s a bit soon for the lass, Nancy. Billy’s not that long gone, maybe the child needs to serve out her mourning.’ The implication that Nancy herself was not mourning did not miss its mark.
‘You can’t mourn forever, Tom,’ she said quietly. ‘And kids gets over things quicker than what we do. She’ll get used to him.’
Tom stared at my mother for some time before answering, ‘If you say so.’ Whereupon he turned to light a spill at the fire.
‘You don’t like him, do you, Tom?’
‘I’ve no feelings either way, Nancy. You know him better than I do, though I daresay there’s folks round here as have known him longer. Anyway, what should you care about the opinions of a lad not yet twenty?’ He applied the spill to his pipe, puffed for several seconds then swung round to face her once more.
My mother turned her gaze on me. ‘You coming home then, Annie?’
I kicked at the rug with the toe of my clog.
Tom nudged me gently. ‘Get on home then, lass.’
I made up my mind there and then that should my mother become Mrs Eddie Higson, then I would move in with Tom, Freddie and Mrs Hyatt. It seemed a simple enough solution. If my mother loved Mr Higson more than she loved me, then I would go and live among people who really cared for me.
It had not yet occurred to me that I would not be allowed to put this plan into action. But, having found Tom, the one adult in whom I could place a measure of trust, I went home if not happy then at least comforted, believing I had discovered some if not all of the answers.
3
My Immortal Soul
Like many ugly babies, I had developed into an acceptably attractive child. Although I outstripped my peers by a good couple of inches in height, a fact that often made me a target for Sister Agatha’s wrath (since I was the most visible victim in my class), I was blessed with an abundance of soft yellow curls and wide-spaced green eyes. Other assets included two sets of fine strong limbs that made me an adequate competitor in games involving either sex and a respected adversary when it came to combat of any kind.
Of course, like most females, I was not satisfied with my appearance. My mouth was too big for my face, my nose silly, small and freckled, my knees were lumpy, making the long calves appear thin, while my elbows always protruded at odd angles from the few skimpy dresses I owned.
Nevertheless, I was reasonably at peace with myself, having established my leadership at school, having learned to live with, if not to like, the various compromises required by the adults who dominated my life.
My mother was fond of me; of that I was fairly sure. During the long years of war we had shared a bed, shared our hiding place under the solid squareness of the kitchen table, we had divided equally between us our odd meals of dried egg and blackened potato. We had also pooled our fears, my mother often turning to me with her worries, making me far older than my years.
Our dependence was mutual; often I played the role of comforter when she returned from long fruitless hours of queuing for food or when, in the dark hours, she would turn to me i
n her loneliness, her tears wetting my pillow as well as her own. For her part, she nursed me through those black days after my father’s death, never once leaving my side until I had wrung myself dry of grief. ‘We must stick together now, Annie,’ she would say. ‘You’re all I’ve got and I’m all you’ve got.’
I began to plan our future, seeing it mapped out before me with all the clear simplicity of a five-year-old mind. ‘I’ll never leave you, Mam. When I’m fifteen, I shall be a hairdresser and we’ll get a shop. You won’t have to work in the mill any more and I shall keep your hair pretty for you.’ And she would smile her sweet sad smile, looking all the while into the flickering flames of our ill-fed fire, wondering, probably, about her own future.
She was only twenty-seven when my father died, a beautiful, tiny woman with Titian curls, grey-green eyes and the sort of walk that made men turn and stare when she passed by. I knew that my mother was pretty, but I never thought of her as young or marriageable. We had had a Daddy, my Daddy. Never in my wildest imaginings did I think that she might want, or need, to replace him.
So when she turned to Eddie Higson, she turned away from me, threw away all my carefully thought out plans, dismissed me almost, from her thoughts, from her heart and from her life. She stopped loving me, stopped caring about me. And no amount of cajoling or bribery on her part or on his could alter my very set opinion.
I became louder, more boisterous at school, seeking trouble, accepting my punishments almost gladly, because I was no longer lovable and deserved to be punished. My teachers, alarmed at this change in me, sent for my mother.
‘She has gone wild, Mrs Byrne. We have all tried.’ Sister Agatha raised her eyes ceilingward, her hands rattling the large rosary that hung from her waist, because she held no whip at this moment. She never held the whip when a parent visited. ‘We in the convent have offered umpteen decades to implore our Blessed Lady to intervene.’ She turned her steely gaze on me. ‘But nothing at all seems to be setting this . . . this poor child back on to the right path.’
A Whisper to the Living Page 2
