A Place To Call Home

by June Francis

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘I suppose your sisters looked up to you? You being their big brother. I suppose, too, that after your father died you wanted to help take care of them. I bet you’ve often wondered what your uncle told them after you’d gone?’

  He nodded, conflicting emotions flitting across his face. ‘I loved my sisters. They used to trail after me like a pair of puppies following their master. I suppose I bossed them about but they didn’t seem to mind. Of course it worries me what my uncle might have told them. They could believe I no longer care about them, they might have put me out of their minds.’

  ‘Surely, your mother would have tried to keep your memory alive?’

  ‘I’m sure she would have if she’d had the opportunity.’ He clenched his fists. ‘I have to find them. I know my uncle’s name is Armstrong and he’s a solicitor. We could look in a telephone book and find his address. Remember you saying to Mrs Cox’s daughter that we were looking for my uncle, Mr Armstrong? I don’t know why I didn’t consider then that he might have known where they were.’

  Greta smiled. ‘It sounds easy when you say it like that.’

  He grinned and pecked her cheek. ‘Sorry about the outburst! I’m an ungrateful sod! You and your dad and gran have done so much for me. Now, let’s find a telephone box and look through all the Armstrongs.’ He seized her hand and ran with her.

  Greta settled herself next to the window in the railway carriage, which they had to themselves. They had caught a tram to Waterloo station, which was the next one after Seaforth on the Liverpool Southport line. There they had found a telephone box, riffled through the directory and discovered a George Armstrong, who was in partnership with another solicitor called Simmons. They had chambers in Crosby, as well as Liverpool. Alex’s uncle also had a house, which Alex had suddenly remembered was somewhere near Hall Road station. It was three stops after Seaforth.

  ‘So tell me what you remember about your father’s brother?’ said Greta, gazing across at Alex.

  ‘Not much! I don’t remember his being part of our lives,’ said Alex, knitting his brow. ‘I think he was older than Dad, married with no children. Maybe that’s why we didn’t see much of him.’

  ‘What was his wife like?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘I don’t remember much about her. Perhaps she didn’t feel comfortable around children.’

  ‘She took on your sisters.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  They were quiet a moment, each wondering what kind of reaction their arrival would provoke. ‘You’ve never mentioned the girls by name,’ said Greta, leaning towards him.

  He smiled. ‘That’s because Mum and Dad always referred to them as the girls. They were called Lydia and Barbara.’

  ‘Have you thought you might have trouble recognising them … and they, you?’

  Alex said hesitantly, ‘I’m sure I’ll know them when I see them.’

  ‘What d’you think your uncle will say?’

  ‘Probably, what the hell are you doing here?’ murmured Alex, resting his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.

  Greta studied his features, wondering what his sisters would make of him. How could they not like what they saw? Lovely grey eyes, a nose that was almost perfectly straight and a mouth that had a deeply curving lower lip. She had an urge to kiss him. And she woke him with a kiss; Sleeping Beauty in reverse. She smiled mischievously, wondering how he would react if she did such a thing. At that moment, Alex’s eyelids lifted and their eyes met.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ he said drowsily.

  ‘Nothing!’ She closed her eyes, her emotions confused. She wanted him to be happy. Yet, if he did find his mother and sisters where would that leave her? His family might put pressure on him to have nothing more to do with her. She might end up never seeing him again and that didn’t bear thinking about.

  They left the train at Hall Road station. On either side of the road were large detached houses of pebbledash and red brick, some had black and white gabling. All had enormous gardens. ‘It’s real posh, isn’t it?’ whispered Greta.

  Alex did not answer because he was too busy gazing about him. He pointed to a double gateway and, behind a fence, a notice that said WEST LANCASHIRE GOLF CLUB. ‘I have been here. I remember that sign. I think if we carry on in this direction, we’ll come to the sea and that’ll clinch it. We are in the right place.’

  He headed off down the road so fast that Greta had to run to catch up with him. He took her down to the front where, if they gazed towards the right across the water, they could see part of the Wirral coastline and the Welsh hills beyond. ‘I remember my dad saying, You can see Snowdon on a clear day. Think about that, Greta, if you go and stay with your uncle Fred. You’re not so far away from Liverpool.’

  She made no answer but followed him as he retraced his steps. They went up one tree-lined road and then down another. There were few people about because it was a cold day. Suddenly he stopped in front of a driveway, devoid of gates. There was a name on the gatepost. Hawkshead! He slapped his hand against it. ‘This is it! I remember being here with Dad. There was only Uncle George in the house. Dad sent me out into the garden and told me to play.’ Alex spoke rapidly. ‘There was a little summer house … and a shed which was locked. On the grass was a golf club and some balls. I think I picked up the club and had a swipe at them.’

  ‘Are you going to knock?’ Greta’s heart was beating rapidly as she gazed up the gravelled drive that curved between patches of ground containing frost-blighted plants. Several large trees, devoid of leaves, shielded the house from those on either side.

  ‘That’s what we’re here for!’ He led the way.

  There was an open porch and Alex stepped inside. He rattled the letter box and when nobody came he rapped his knuckles on the panel of the door. Are we going to be out of luck again? thought Greta.

  Alex peered through the letterbox.

  ‘See anything?’ she asked.

  Alex shook his head. ‘Let’s go round the back.’ He led the way, squeezing past overgrown holly and laurel bushes. There was a door set in the side of the house but, when he tried the handle, it was locked. So he carried on round to the rear.

  The garden was enclosed by trees and at the bottom there was a summer house and a shed. With a triumphant expression, Alex said, ‘I was right. This is it! Although there used to be a lawn and flowerbeds.’

  ‘Dig for Victory,’ murmured Greta, eyeing the ploughed over space where the lawn must have been.

  Alex went over to the rear of the house and peered through the French windows. ‘It’s really tidy in here! No newspapers, cups or books lying around.’ He frowned.

  ‘Perhaps your uncle’s away,’ suggested Greta.

  Alex made no comment but, from his pocket, took out a Swiss Army knife.

  ‘You’re not going to break in?’ Her voice was startled, and she glanced nervously in the direction of the neighbouring houses, although she could see little of them.

  Alex pulled out one of the blades and began to work it between the door and the rotting woodwork. There was a click. He opened the door and stood listening a moment before stepping over the threshold. Greta hesitated but he beckoned her in and closed the door behind them.

  She watched Alex as his eyes roamed about the room. ‘I’m sure there was some kind of argument going on in here when I came with Dad,’ he said, his expression strained. ‘Raised voices, anyway, coming from the French windows. Dad came storming out, yanked me by the arm and told me we were going home.’

  ‘He didn’t say why?’

  ‘No!’ Alex looked rueful. ‘And I didn’t dare ask. He strode along, pulling me by the hand. I fell over a couple of times but he told me to stop messing about and dragged me to my feet. It wasn’t like Dad to be so brusque, but I guess he was upset by whatever his brother had said. It was shortly after that he died.’

  ‘Rene said the coroner’s verdict was accidental deat
h,’ said Greta.

  Alex nodded and made his way across the room with Greta trailing after him, ears alert for any sound that might warn them to get out. ‘Dad wouldn’t have killed himself!’ he said suddenly. ‘He wasn’t the sort.’

  Greta accepted his word for it. ‘Did you ever see your uncle again?’

  ‘Must have if he took charge of things after Dad’s death,’ muttered Alex, ‘but those days are a bit of a blank. I was only eight.’

  They both fell silent: the joy had gone out of the day.

  Alex hurried across the hall and pushed open a door into what was a large kitchen. He quit that and went into another room at the front of the house, which contained a table, chairs and a sideboard. Alex flicked open a cupboard but there was only crockery inside, so he made his way across the hall into another room with a cabinet, shelves of books, a piano and a violin, as well as a couple of armchairs.

  ‘I bet the girls had music lessons,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder where the hell they are.’

  Greta wondered, too. She made a suggestion. ‘Let’s see if there are any photographs about. I’d love to see what your sisters look like.’

  His expression lightened. ‘Perhaps there are some upstairs.’

  Alex led the way and Greta followed him into one bedroom, and then another. Neither of the single beds looked as if they had been slept in, which, perhaps, suggested the girls weren’t living here. Still, they carried on with the search. There was a bathroom and a separate toilet. They didn’t go inside the box room, which had a load of junk in it, but entered the master bedroom.

  Almost immediately, Greta had the weirdest feeling. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to stand up and she felt icy cold. ‘I don’t like this room.’ Her voice was barely audible.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ said Alex, glancing at her with a frown.

  She shrugged, feeling stupid, but did not go further into the room. She watched him go over to a chest of drawers and pick up a framed photograph. ‘Look at this! It must be my uncle with Lydia and Babs!’

  Greta forced herself to cross the room towards him. She took hold of the frame and gazed down at the picture of the man and two girls.

  One of them was fair and the other was dark. Neither was what one would call exactly pretty and their smiles appeared fixed, yet there was something about the line of the jaw and their eyes that made her say, ‘They do have a look of you.’

  His face lit up. ‘You really think so?’ She nodded. ‘What d’you think of him?’ asked Alex.

  She gazed at the man, who had a hand on each of the girls’ shoulders. He was wearing a blazer with some kind of badge on the pocket and what appeared to be a white shirt and flannels. His nose was hooked and beneath it was a toothbrush moustache. His eyes seemed to be fixed intently onto the photographer. ‘You’ll think I’m daft but he reminds me of a villain in a black and white movie. I don’t like the look of him one little bit.’ She handed the framed photograph back to Alex.

  ‘I agree with you!’ said Alex, his brows lowering. He placed it on the chest of drawers. He took out his Swiss knife and began to undo the screws at the back. He removed the photograph and as he did so a folded sheet of newspaper fell to the floor. Greta picked it up. ‘What’s this?’ she said.

  Alex looked at the newspaper. ‘Probably just padding. Get rid of it.’

  She pocketed it, thinking to throw it away later. Alex replaced the glass and fastened the screws with the tip of the blade. He then returned the frame to the chest of drawers. ‘He mightn’t notice the photo’s gone immediately.’

  ‘And when he does what’s he going to think?’

  Alex closed his knife. ‘I don’t particularly care what he thinks. But I’ve a feeling there’s nobody living here. The place is cold and the grates have all been cleared out.’ His expression was grim. ‘For the moment it looks like we’ve reached a dead end again.’

  ‘Poor Alex! It could be that the girls have been evacuated.’ Greta squeezed his arm. ‘This place is starting to gives me the creeps. Let’s get out!’

  They left by the front door and had just reached the gateway when a voice said, ‘I hope you two can explain yourselves.’ They both jumped and then stared at the white haired old lady standing on the pavement. She was peering at them through horn rimmed spectacles and, in one hand, she held a stick.

  Alex said, ‘Mr Armstrong isn’t at home?’

  ‘I’m sure, young ruffian, you know the answer to that,’ she said, waving the stick about.

  Alex stood his ground. ‘Yes, but where is he? And where are the girls and my aunt?’

  ‘Aunt!’ she exclaimed, startled. ‘You’re claiming to be Jane Armstrong’s nephew? If that was true, young man, you would know that she is dead!’

  ‘Dead!’ exclaimed Alex.

  ‘She went to Liverpool to do some shopping for Christmas and had arranged to meet George at his office so they could come home together. A bomb went off just outside the office and she was killed. Poor woman!’

  ‘And my uncle and my sisters? They weren’t with her when it went off?’ Alex’s face had paled.

  The woman’s eyes almost popped out of her head. ‘Your sisters? I-I never knew the girls had a brother?’

  ‘I’m the skeleton in the family cupboard,’ said Alex, smiling grimly, and repeated his question.

  ‘Evacuated, young man! Your aunt took them to Wales shortly before the blitz started. As for your uncle he’s gone away. No one knows where exactly. His wife’s death affected him dreadfully.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alex, and seizing Greta’s hand, dragged her away.

  He was silent on the journey back to Liverpool and Greta did not disturb him with idle chatter. To her shame, relief was her uppermost feeling. How could Alex trace any of his family now? But she was soon to be dissuaded from that conclusion.

  Over the evening meal he spoke to Harry about going down to the shipping offices of Canadian Pacific. ‘If I can get them to search through their records for August of last year and see if they can trace a Mr and Mrs Mawdsley they just might have a destination address in Canada! I could sign on a ship and go out there,’ said Alex, his eyes alight with determination.

  ‘Are you sure about going back to sea?’ Harry looked concerned. ‘What about the U-boats?’

  ‘What about what we’ve been putting up with here for the last few months?’ said Alex.

  Jeff, who was eating with them, put down his knife and fork. ‘If he takes a ship from Greenock, say, most sail through the North Atlantic. Not that it’s much fun up there at this time of year but there’s a better chance of avoiding the U-boats.’

  ‘What about icebergs?’ said Greta. ‘And doesn’t one of the Canadian rivers freeze at this time of year so that ships can’t get up it?’

  Alex nodded. ‘She’s right! I think it’s the St Lawrence. But if I caught a ship heading for Nova Scotia that should be OK.’

  ‘A lot of ships sailing there,’ said Jeff. ‘Not too difficult to get to the mainland of Canada from there.’

  Alex agreed. ‘I’ll go down the shipping office and see what I come up with and then go down the Pool and see what’s going.’

  Greta was horrified. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to try and trace your sisters in Wales than go all that way to find your mother?’

  Alex said quietly, ‘I thought that was a job you might be able to do. You can have the photograph and see how you go.’

  Thanks a lot! Greta thought wryly. She got up and began to gather the dirty dishes together.

  That night she prayed fervently that Alex would meet with no success at the shipping offices. She didn’t want him to go, knowing she would worry about him even more than she did at the moment. If only a bomb had destroyed all their files. No such luck! Within the fortnight Alex had left Liverpool for Greenock and a ship going to Nova Scotia. The Mawdsleys had put their destination down as St John in New Brunswick.

  13

  Greta emerged from the house, muffled to the
eyeballs in scarf, hat and with her coat collar turned up, her eyes scanning a sheet of newspaper before she placed it in her pocket. She walked down the front step to where Rene was waiting at the bottom. ‘Cold day,’ said Rene. ‘Heard anything from Alex yet?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘Uncle Jeff reckons it takes eight to nine days to cross the Atlantic if weather conditions are favourable but it can be rough at this time of year, and what with trying to steer clear of the U-boats it’ll be a miracle if he makes it in a fortnight. Uncle Jeff knows just how to cheer you up! Hopefully Alex’ll write as soon as he’s got news … and that the letter gets to me.’ She crossed her fingers and touched the wooden fence.

  ‘Your Uncle Jeff … has he said anything to you about when he’s going back to sea?’ asked Rene as they walked up the street.

  Greta glanced sidelong at her. ‘I thought you’d know that better than me.’

  Rene shook her head. ‘I went out with him only the once.’

  Greta looked surprised. ‘I thought it was more than that the way he goes on about you.’

  ‘No!’

  Greta frowned. ‘I wonder why he lied. I can’t say I like him myself. I think he’s two-faced. He sucks up to Gran by bringing her flowers and when she said she’d rather have a drink or sweets, he used some of his sweet ration to buy her favourite humbugs and took her to an oyster bar in town. I don’t know what he’s up to, it’s not as if she’s got any money to give him.’

  ‘Perhaps he needs your grandmother’s love. After all, who else has he got when it comes to family? I take it he doesn’t try to get round you?’

  Greta pulled a face. ‘He makes an effort to talk to me about Mam sometimes … says how fond they were of each other and how she was her dad’s favourite. A lot of good that did her!’ She changed the subject. ‘By the way, Gran and I did get a letter from Uncle Fred in Wales.’