by June Francis
Harry’s expression was a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
‘You’d be safer in Wales or Lancashire, the pair of you. It’s not going to be any fun when the bombs start falling.’
‘We’ve seen the newsreels, Dad,’ said Greta, her teeth crunching into a slice of toast. ‘Besides, what’s the point of shelters being built if everybody leaves the city?’
Harry picked up his spoon. ‘Now you’re being daft! But we’ll wait and see what happens when it comes.’
Shortly after he spoke those words, all men of twenty and twenty-one were called up. On the evening of May Day, Greta sat in the cinema with her grandmother, watching a newsreel showing Hitler sitting on a golden throne reviewing thousands of troops on his birthday parade. In the newspaper the next day, it was reported that Goebbels had told Germany’s young people that they were immune to international hysteria, protected by what was probably the greatest army in the world.
His words made Greta’s blood run cold. The world was a frightening place and she wondered how a war would affect Alexander when it came. It was a while since she had given him the letters and in the first few weeks she hadn’t expected to hear from him, and she still hoped he would write sooner or later. But as a month passed, then five weeks, six weeks, she began to believe that he wasn’t going to get in touch with them again, and felt really disappointed.
She was scrubbing the step one Saturday morning in the middle of May, planning on doing the Millers’ step as soon as she had finished theirs, when the postman stopped next to her. It was such an unusual event that she stared at him. The only person who had ever received post in their family had been her mother. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘You Miss Greta Peters?’
‘Yes!’ She felt a stir of excitement.
‘Postcard for you.’
She dropped the scrubbing brush in the soapy water and quickly wiped her hands on the pinafore, that had been her mother’s, before taking it from him. ‘Thanks!’ She gazed at the small black and white photographs and the words in a foreign language. Buenos Aires were two of them. She turned the card over, knowing that Buenos Aires was in South America, so was already expecting to read Alexander’s name on the back. She wasn’t disappointed, although he had signed himself Alex.
The writing was small and cramped into the space allowed for a message.
Dear Greta,
I’d hoped to be back in Liverpool before now but didn’t expect the ship to be stuck on a sandbank up the Rio Parana for several weeks after leaving Fray Bentos’ factory. Nor did I expect us to go on to Colombo after leaving Buenos Aires to deliver a cargo of rice!
The letters are all from my mother and explain some things and give me a lead. It’s really frustrating that I can’t get back home and get on with the search. Not sure when I’ll see you. Perhaps you should keep your eye on the Arrivals and Departures in the Echo’s Shipping News for SS. Arcadian Star. You could come and meet me. Hope you, your gran and dad are well,
Yours sincerely, Alex Armstrong.
Greta read the words again, smiled and placed the card in the front pouch in the pinafore. She wrung out the floor cloth and began to wipe the tiles and sing What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor? Harry and Cissie were out, so she would have to wait to give them the good news.
When Harry arrived home he had some good news himself. He had been given a job helping construct outdoor air raid shelters. So all told, Greta felt happier than she had for a while.
Just as their Majesties, King George and Queen Elizabeth, took ship for Canada, the summer fashions arrived in the shops. In T. J. Hughes a check stroller coat could be had for fifteen shillings, and six shilling and eleven pence could buy a floral patterned frock in art silk with puffed sleeves, a fitted waist and the new swing skirt. Rene bought one and showed it off to her mother and Greta, who had come in to see the kittens. Vera reminded them both that the day might come when clothes would be rationed, as well as food. But Rene hadn’t bought the frock with that in mind but to cheer herself up. She was still dreaming of Harry, sensual dreams that brought a blush to her cheeks and made her realise just how hopelessly in love with him she was.
A few days later Merseyside had its next air raid practice; this time Greta and her grandmother had blackout curtains up at all the windows. The girl stayed awake listening to the drone of the planes overhead, and wondering what her father was doing, out with the Civil Defence. She hoped that he wasn’t in any danger.
Harry arrived back at the house Sunday morning, and was about to put his key in the lock when the Millers’ door opened and Rene stepped out, carrying the milk jug. He was tired and dirty but exhilarated after the night’s events. Yet at the sight of her, a different kind of thrill ran through him. Her appearance was bandbox fresh and her curves looked luscious in the clinging fabric of the dress she was wearing. He only just prevented his jaw from dropping to manage a smile. ‘Morning, Rene!’
‘Morning, Harry!’ She could not have been more delighted to see him. ‘How did things go last night?’
‘Great! Ready for bed, though, now.’
Their eyes met and held.
‘I know what you mean!’ She moistened her lips, remembering her dream and had to swallow hastily before adding, ‘You must be exhausted after being up all night.’
‘You can say that again. I’ll probably go out like a light.’
‘Well, sweet dreams!’ She tore her gaze from his and hurried down the step.
For a moment Harry stared after her, his heart thumping, and then he thrust the key savagely into the lock and went indoors. He did not say anything about his previous night’s work to Cissie and Greta and, as soon as he’d washed and had something to eat, went straight to bed to dream of Rene lying in his arms. When he woke, he lay there wracked with guilt for lusting after Sally’s best friend so soon after his wife’s death.
Greta did not forget what Alex had said about scanning the local paper for the arrival of the SS Arcadian Star. But weeks passed with no mention of the ship. Then the first evening she did not scan the arrivals and departures, she arrived home, from the pictures with her grandmother, to find Harry talking to Wilf on the front step. The two men looked up and there was the slightest of frowns on Harry’s face. ‘What are you two talking about at this time of night? Secrets?’ teased Cissie.
Wilf smiled tentatively. ‘What secrets could we have? Unless you think that knowing that the last of the kittens have been taken by their new owners to good homes would be useful to Hitler?’
Cissie chuckled. ‘I believe yer’ve made a joke, Wilf. Although, I’m not convinced yer were talking about kittens.’
‘No,’ said Harry ‘We were talking about young Armstrong. I know our Greta’s been watching out for his ship docking for ages. Well, it’s there in tonight’s Echo. It’s due to dock at Brocklebank tomorrow morning. What d’you say, lass, if the pair of us go and meet him? It’ll be first thing in the morning so we’ll make an early start.’
Greta couldn’t have been more pleased by the suggestion and knew she would probably lie awake, thinking of the coming reunion with Alex.
Greta dogged Harry’s heels as he strode along the dock road, his unbuttoned tweed jacket flapping like a ship’s sail with a rising wind. Beneath the jacket, he wore a collarless blue shirt that was open at the neck, revealing a patch of white singlet. She didn’t know why he was in such a hurry but she was having a job keeping pace with him. Since she hadn’t given any thought to why he wasn’t working that morning, having spent too much time planning what to wear and getting ready. The trouble was, she didn’t have anything she’d call decent. Nothing grown up! Her clothes were all kid’s stuff. This morning she hadn’t bothered with a coat but was wearing a navy blue cardigan over a blue and yellow floral frock in last year’s style. She couldn’t wait until she left school and got a job, so she could buy some decent clothes, especially if this different kind of job her father had said he was working on now was p
ermanent and brought in better money than the last one.
Despite it not yet being nine o’clock on a fine July Saturday morning, the cobbled dock road was busy. The clatter of hooves and the ring of metal rimmed cartwheels, the noise of engines and the shouts of men, almost drowned out the rattle of a train as it drew into the Brocklebank Station. They reached the gateway and the gateman came out of his box.
He was just about to ask them what they wanted, when there was a commotion inside. ‘What’s going on?’ asked Harry.
The gateman made no answer but hurried into the dockyard. Harry pushed his flat cap back, freeing a head of curling black hair. The muscles of his face were taut and his wide-set blue eyes wore a determined expression. ‘You stay here, Greta,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll go and find out.’ He followed in the man’s wake.
The last thing Greta wanted to do was stay where she was but supposed that she had better appear to do as she was told … at least for a couple of minutes or so. She wondered what the fuss was about. Had there been an explosion? Only the other week the IRA had planted bombs in two pillar boxes, a couple of miles from where they lived. Or was it possible that German saboteurs were behind it? She could stand the suspense no longer and sidled through the gateway.
To her left, timber was piled up in a yard that led to a slipway into the water. Ahead she could see ships at loading berths and her father going up the gangway of one of them. The gateman was shouting up to a youth on the deck. The next minute, the gateman came running towards Greta. Hastily she got out of the way and watched him head for his box and go inside. She saw him pick up a telephone. Obviously something had gone wrong aboard the ship that Harry had boarded. She prayed that Alex’s vessel was not involved.
She headed towards the ship and saw that it was called the Baroness. There was no one else near it, although the dockers unloading the other ship, surely Alex’s, were gazing in the direction of the Baroness and gesticulating and talking excitedly.
She waited, gazing up at the ship and then suddenly the youth appeared on deck again and came down the gangway. It was only as he made to run past her, and she asked him what was happening, that he gasped, ‘Pipe burst down in the steam room! Can’t stop! Big trouble!’ and she realised it was Alex. She stared at him, her pulse racing. He had filled out, his clothes were wringing wet and his sunburnt face was running with sweat and speckled with what looked like coal dust.
She ran alongside him. ‘Alex, it’s me, Greta! Is anyone hurt?’
‘Yes!’ He stared at her and recognition showed in his eyes. ‘Hi, Greta! Can’t stop! The shore gang from Brown’s engineering yard was getting up steam. Several have been scalded. The screams were terrible! You shouldn’t be here.’
‘You told me to come and meet you!’ she countered. ‘Dad came too. He remembered Mam writing to you and knows that your mother wrote to her.’
‘Blinking hell! I never expected him to come with you.’ Alex looked gratified but then said, ‘I’m going to have to leave you. Some of the blokes are in a right mess and we’ll need more than one ambulance.’ He tore off in the direction of the dock gate.
Greta stopped, seeing no point in following him and turned and walked back to the Baroness. The thought of scalding hot steam sounded terrible. She remembered getting a tiny slap off her Gran once when she was younger for getting too close to a hot kettle that she had placed on the hearth. It had really hurt. Cissie had gently rubbed butter on her painful scorched skin, and told her not to go near steaming kettles again.
Greta became aware of screams and there was such a depth of pain in the sound that she felt cold all over. She gazed towards the deck of the ship and saw Harry staggering under the weight of a man, half-carrying him. Someone else on deck took the injured man from him and Harry vanished out of sight again. There were other men on deck and one was pushing a wheelbarrow but, only as he approached the top of the gangway did she notice the man in it was not moving and, with a sick feeling, she wondered if he was dead. She chewed on the inside of her lip, praying that her father and any other men below would be safe.
Several men and youths dressed in overalls joined her in her wait, gazing up at the ship, murmuring amongst themselves. Then came the clanging of bells and she glanced over her shoulder and saw two ambulances heading their way. Rear doors opened and stretchers were taken out and carried aboard. Alex reappeared with the gatekeeper and a policeman. He came and stood next to Greta as the injured were brought down the gangway. She heard the hiss of his breath and caught a brief glimpse of one man’s face that was covered in a mass of blisters. Her stomach heaved and she turned away. She could not bear to look at the rest of the men and kept her eyes lowered, her heart pounding as she wondered what was happening to her father.
The clanging of bells as the ambulances sped away caused her to look up and her gaze caught Alex’s. If her face was the colour of his, then she must look like she’d seen a ghost. ‘I hope I never see a sight like that again,’ he said hoarsely.
She nodded, trembling, so glad he hadn’t been hurt, wishing her father would appear. Suddenly, he and a sailor were on deck, supporting one of the injured men. She felt her chest swell with pride, thinking that if she was ever to marry, it would have to be someone really special to match up to her dad.
The stretcher bearers went aboard. Harry came down the gangway, walking jerkily behind them as they carried the injured man to another ambulance. Harry’s face was sweaty and his eyes were red-rimmed. She could hear him taking deep gulps of air.
She darted towards him. ‘Are you OK, Dad?’
He blinked and nodded. She thought he didn’t look it and put her arm round his waist and told him to lean on her. ‘You’re coming home with me.’
‘Here, let me help you, Mr Peters.’ Alex made to take his arm but one of the ambulance men put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and said, ‘He’s not going anywhere until he’s been to the hospital and the doctor’s run an eye over him. Step away, you young’uns and I’ll get him into the ambulance.’
Greta said firmly, ‘He’s my dad! I’m coming with him.’
‘No, girl, you can’t. It’d be too much of a tight squeeze,’ said the man. ‘Besides it’s not the place for you.’
She would have argued with him if Harry had not said, ‘Leave it, luv. You and Alex make your way home and I’ll see you later.’ He climbed into the back of the vehicle with the ambulance man and the doors were shut. Greta gnawed on her lip, staring after the ambulance as it drove away.
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Alex, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his face.
She sighed. ‘I hope you’re right. Where will they take him, d’you think?’
‘Bootle Hospital. It’s only about ten minutes away, if that.’ He hesitated. ‘I have a problem with your dad’s suggestion.’
She glanced at him and thought how his frame and face had filled out. It suited him. ‘What is it?’
‘I wasn’t intending going straight to your house. Truthfully, I wasn’t certain you would turn up but I decided to hang around for a bit in case you did. The rest of the crew headed for Liverpool or home, but I was going to make for Stanley Road after tidying myself up.’ He took a letter from a trouser pocket.
Her expression brightened. ‘You mean you know where your mother and sisters are?’
‘Not exactly. But this is the last letter my mother sent to yours. Perhaps you’d like to read it?’
Greta took it from him and saw that it was dated November 1938 and noted the address.
Dear Sally,
I am writing this ahead of my usual Christmas letter because I have such exciting news for you. I am to marry again. A charming man, who has his own shop selling bicycles. I cannot believe my good fortune. He is much older than me with four grown up children, who, fortunately, are all married with their own homes. As you can imagine everything is in confusion here, what with dress fittings for the wedding and honeymoon, and arrangements to make about what to do with my bits
and pieces that I can’t take with me. I will write to you again soon and tell you all about the wedding and my new home. He lives in a flat over the shop. It is quite large, big enough for two anyway.
With all fond wishes for a happy Christmas to you and your family. Yours in a rush, Abigail Armstrong.
P.S. I have sent word asking if my dear girls may attend the wedding but I have little hope that their uncle will allow it. He will say that it will unsettle them.
Greta lifted her eyes and met Alex’s grey ones. ‘Rene said your uncle took the girls. It sounds like he doesn’t allow your mother to have much to do with them.’ She returned the letter to him.
There was a deep scowl on Alex’s face as he folded the sheet of paper. ‘I presume it’s Mum’s brother, David. He and his wife have a couple of girls of their own. I’ve a feeling he handles Mum’s finances, giving her a small allowance to live on. I remember Dad saying she was hopeless with money. Probably the lack of it was the reason I was sent to the orphanage. There’s no mention of why in the letters … although she hints at being forbidden to have any contact with me.’
Greta almost said, She could have still made contact.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Alex fiercely. ‘That if she cared, she could have still visited me or written … but I could tell from the letters that it took her all her time to look after herself. She’s not like your gran! She wouldn’t know where to start coping on her own and looking after us when we were kids.’
‘But won’t things be different now she’s married someone else?’
‘I hope so! That’s why I’ve got to find her.’ He pocketed the letter and ran a hand through his damp hair. ‘I don’t expect her to be at the flat in Stanley Road but I’m hoping to be given a forwarding address.’
Greta was so interested in his concerns that she almost forgot about her father on his way to Bootle Hospital. Even so, she told herself that there was nothing she could do for him and felt certain he would not mind her going with Alex before heading home.
