by Maureen Lee
Excitement mounting, Jessica searched for the date at the top of the paper. The excitement fled when she saw it was dated the end of August. Two months ago.
Still, it was worth a try. She took Penny along to Sheila’s. ‘Do you mind looking after her for a minute? I want to make a phone call.’
‘Of course I don’t. She loves being with her Auntie Sheila, don’t you, Penny, luv?’
The number was answered by a woman who sounded as if she kept a special voice for the telephone, a rather exaggerated falsetto. When Jessica told her the reason she was calling, she lapsed into a normal Liverpudlian accent. ‘The garage? I’d almost forgotten I’d put an advertisement in.’ She put the emphasis on the third syllable, advertisement. ‘She’s common,’ thought Jessica. ‘Is it still available?’ she enquired.
‘I suppose so. I’d more or less given up on the idea. Me husband’s in the army and I can’t get anyone to work here. That’s why I thought of renting and letting someone else take the bloody place off me hands.’
‘Can I come and see it?’
‘You? For your husband, like?’
‘No, for myself. Can I come or not?’ Jessica demanded impatiently.
‘Well, if you like.’ The woman sounded dubious. ‘I hope you’re not wasting me time. I’ve got friends in at the moment. You do realise it’s a garage we’re talking about; y’know, a place where you mend cars?’
‘I know what a garage is,’ Jessica said coldly. ‘If I could have your name and address?’ She felt certain Sheila wouldn’t mind looking after Penny for a while longer.
‘The name’s Mott, Mrs Rita Mott. I’m directly opposite the football ground by Linacre Bridge. You can’t miss us.’
It was a relatively modern building, with double doors and living quarters above, the windows of which were adorned with frilly purple net. There was a single petrol pump in the small forecourt.
Jessica knocked on the side door as she’d been instructed and was pleased to notice a small, untidy garden at the rear where Penny could play. She could hear music from within and the sound of men’s voices. After quite a while, the door was opened by a small skinny woman of about thirty with hair a far more brilliant red than Jessica’s. She wore a purple scarf which looked as if it might have been made out of leftover curtains turbanwise on top of her head, and tied in a huge bow which made her look rather like a startled rabbit. She had on a tight-fitting black crepe dress with sequins on the shoulders, and a cigarette protruded upwards like a chimney out of the corner of her bright scarlet mouth, which had been painted slightly larger than it actually was.
‘That much lipstick would last me a week!’ thought Jessica. ‘I wonder where she gets it from? And the pancake’s plastered on.’
Rita Mott’s eyelashes were little sticks of knobbly mascara. She fluttered them in shock when she saw Jessica, in her smart camel coat with a silk blouse underneath and brown alligator shoes with matching handbag.
‘Are you sure about this?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘Dead sure. May I take a look around?’
Rita Mott opened the double doors with a key. The workshop was big enough to hold four cars at a pinch. There was a pit at the back, a small half-glazed office in the far corner, and the place appeared adequately equipped with tools.
‘It was Den’s pride and joy, this garage.’ Rita pursed her lips in a wry sort of way, as if she wasn’t entirely sure if that had been a good thing or not. She had the ability to puff in and out on the cigarette without removing it from her mouth. She screwed up her eyes to escape the smoke. ‘He skimped and scraped for years to get it off the ground. It was showing a good profit and he’d even taken on a mate from school to lend a hand, when not long after both of ’em were called up. Den’s in India now, stationed in some place with a dead peculiar name.’
Jessica made sympathetic noises and Rita shrugged. ‘Mind you, trade was already beginning to drop off a little bit by then. Quite a few cars have been taken off the road since petrol rationing started, but I’m sure there’s still enough to keep one person busy. Anyroad, I promised Dennis I’d keep the place going while he was away so’s he wouldn’t lose the goodwill he’d built up, but although I manage the pump meself, I can’t get a good mechanic for love nor money. I did have this old geezer for a while, but people kept bringing their cars back to complain they weren’t fixed proper.’
‘I suppose the good ones have gone into factories.’
‘And what makes you think you’re a good one – mechanic, that is?’ Rita stared at Jessica somewhat belligerently. ‘I still can’t believe you’re serious. One of me friends upstairs suggested someone’s playing a joke, having me on, like.’
‘It’s no joke. My father had his own removal and haulage business,’ Jessica explained. ‘I used to help maintain the lorries when he first started. I know engines inside out.’
‘All the same, it’s a funny job for a woman to want to do,’ Rita remarked.
‘I like being my own boss – I take it there wouldn’t be any interference from you?’
Rita sniggered. ‘You can bet your life there wouldn’t. I don’t know one end of a car from the other. As long as no-one brings ’em back to complain, I’ll be happy. Oh, you’d have to look after the pump, too. It’s a bloody nuisance most of the time. It means I can never go out during the day.’
‘That’s all right. I take it the profit from the pump would be mine?’
Rita looked nonplussed for the moment. She puffed on her cigarette whilst she thought. ‘That’d be only right, wouldn’t it?’ she said eventually. ‘You don’t make much on petrol, but it wouldn’t be proper, you working it in on my behalf, as it were.’
Jessica decided Rita Mott was a fair-minded woman and she quite liked her, despite her ghastly appearance. ‘Shall we shake hands on it, then?’
To her surprise, Rita looked more reluctant than Jessica had expected. ‘Well, let’s give it a month, see how you get on, like. I’m not sure how Den’s old customers’ll take to a woman.’ She shook hands all the same. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve got a party going on inside, and me friends’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. You can pay the five quid at the end of the first week. When can I expect you to turn up?’
‘Monday,’ said Jessica. ‘You can expect me on Monday, nine o’clock sharp.’
‘Den always opened up at eight.’
‘Eight o’clock, then. No!’ Jessica remembered she was her own boss. It was her garage and Rita had promised there would be no interference. ‘Half past eight. I’ll see you at half past eight on Monday.’
A terrible thing happened that weekend. The air-raid siren wailed, as it still did occasionally. No-one took much notice, convinced it was another false alarm. They didn’t rush to their shelters, but waited instead for the sound of planes overhead, a signal this was a real raid after four and a half months free from attack.
The planes seemed to appear out of nowhere and took everyone by surprise as all of a sudden, to their intense horror, bombs began to fall.
Sheila Reilly frantically dragged her children from their beds and ushered them under the stairs. Doors slammed throughout the street as people quickly made for the public shelter around the corner. Scarcely anyone in the King’s Arms moved; if they were going to die, then what better way than with a pint of bitter in their hand and surrounded by all their old mates, though one or two men left to be with their families.
In number 1, Nan Wright was woken by the strange howling sound and wondered what it was. She couldn’t be bothered getting up to find out. It couldn’t be anything important, not in the middle of the night. Nan spent all her time indoors lately and her concerned neighbours kept coming in to see how she was. ‘Ould Jacob Singerman hasn’t been in a long time,’ Nan thought. ‘I wonder if he’s all right?’ She turned over and fell asleep and dreamt of Ruby, who was out in the street beckoning to her and calling, ‘Come on, Mam.’ ‘Come on where, girl?’ Nan cried. ‘Come on where?’
&
nbsp; Jessica Fleming stood mesmerised in the middle of the bedroom, Penny clutched to her breast, unsure what to do or where to go. The ground shook as one explosion was followed by another. Planes growled overhead, there was the sound of ack-ack fire from the guns on the ground, and missiles hurtled towards the earth with a hideous cruel whine. There would be a pause, then the ground would shake again.
She crept under the stairs and sat on the floor surrounded by the feather duster and the broom and boxes of Miss Brazier’s old dishes. It hadn’t crossed her mind to prepare the cupboard as a shelter.
‘And to think I regretted missing all this!’ she whispered. ‘Penny, love, your mother must be mad!’
There were more victims of German bombs that night than on any other, even in the very worst of the Blitz, 109 casualties altogether.
Pearl Street remained untouched. The worst damage was concentrated on Surrey Street, where two bombs fell close together.
For days, weeks afterwards, everyone was petrified the whole terrible business was about to start again.
But that October night was the last time the German Luftwaffe were to target their bombs on the small town of Bootle.
Dominic Reilly swung his gas mask around in a wide circle above his head. At the same time, he began to run, hollering a war chant like the Red Indians he saw at the pictures on Saturday afternoons.
‘Mind where you’re going, lad,’ an old man muttered as he dodged out of the way of the lethal weapon. ‘You could knock somebody’s block off with that.’
Dominic put the gas mask over his shoulder and galloped instead, slapping his hip to urge himself onwards. He stopped hollering and made a clip-clop noise with his tongue. He was Wild Bill Hickok chasing after the baddies.
His brother Niall caught up with him, panting breathlessly. ‘You’re daft you are, you nearly killed that ould man.’
‘He was a baddy.’
‘No he wasn’t, he was an ould man.’
Niall, a year younger than Dominic, wasn’t sure whether to be proud or jealous of his brother that day. St Joan of Arc’s football team had just won their second-round game and Dominic, the captain, had scored the only two goals. Although Niall enjoyed basking in a certain amount of reflected glory, he would have liked to have been in the team himself and subject to the wild adulation of his team mates for having been responsible for his side’s win. This was merely wishful thinking. Niall was built more like his mam than his dad, with pale, soft skin and narrow shoulders. He had no aptitude for games of any sort, yet he was brighter than his brother, a fact no-one had remarked on as yet, he thought resentfully.
‘Me mam’ll have a fit when she sees your jacket,’ he said, to try and bring his brother down a peg or two.
‘What’s wrong with me jacket?’
‘The pocket’s nearly off, that’s what. You must have done it when you got in that fight outside the gates.’
Dominic glanced down at the pocket of his tweed jacket which was hanging on by a few threads. He wasn’t in the mood to be brought down the merest fraction of a peg. He pulled it off and put it in his other pocket. ‘Now she won’t notice,’ he said airily.
As far as Dominic was concerned the world was almost perfect. The one thing that would have made it complete, was his dad being home when he got there so he could tell him about his win. Next best thing would be telling Mr Quigley, who’d been giving him a few tips on how to play.
When the boys arrived home, their mam was in the kitchen getting the tea ready. Dominic sniffed. Scouse, his favourite meal of all.
‘We won the match, Mam.’ He puffed his chest out and his face glowed with achievement. ‘I scored the only two goals.’
Sheila, who was stirring the pan to make sure the suet dumplings didn’t stick, her face red with perspiration, glanced across at her eldest son. ‘Where’s your pocket?’ she snapped.
‘In the other one,’ Dominic snapped back, irritated that she showed no interest in his glorious success. ‘I’m going to write to our dad tonight and tell him.’ He knew the mention of his dad would have a beneficial effect.
It did. Sheila’s expression softened. ‘That’s a nice idea, luv. Perhaps youse kids could all do a letter together. We’ll get Ryan and Mary to put kisses at the end. Your dad might find it waiting for him when he gets to America.’
Niall was hanging back, feeling overshadowed by his brother, and was pleased when his mam ruffled his hair and said, ‘And what did you do today, son?’
‘I got all me sums right, even the multiplication.’
‘Did you now! Your dad’ll be pleased when he hears about that, too.’
Just as if the two achievements were equal, Dominic snorted inwardly. His dad was mad about football, same as every other man in the world.
‘I’m going to see Mr Quigley,’ he told his mam.
‘Your tea’ll be ready in a minute,’ Sheila said sharply. ‘Anyroad, I’m not sure if Jimmy Quigley’ll be all that pleased if you turn up. He’s more than a bit off-putting whenever people call to help.’
‘I’m not going to help him, I’m going to see him,’ Dominic said huffily. He still felt cross with her for not being more impressed with his win.
‘Two-nil! That’s dead good, that is. Two-nil! And you scored ’em both, eh?’
At last, someone who could appreciate the awesome-ness of Dominic’s achievement! Mr Quigley wasn’t just impressed, he wanted to know the full details of each goal, each attempted goal, each goal the other side had tried to score but hadn’t, the precise ability of each player and his height and approximate weight, the nature of the play and the standard and impartiality of the refereeing.
‘What does impartiality mean?’ asked Dominic, only too pleased to go through the entire match kick by kick.
‘Was he fair?’
‘Not so bad. I reckon he favoured the other side a bit more than he did us.’
‘That’s always the case,’ Jimmy said sadly. He regarded Dominic with a proprietorial air, as if he wouldn’t have won if it wasn’t for him. ‘Did you work out who their best player was, like I said, and shadow him whenever he went in your half?’
‘You bet! I never let him out of me sight for a mo. Every time he got near our goal, I was there.’
‘And did you shoot low, like, when you scored the goals? Remember, it’s much easier for a goalie to jump up to stop the ball, rather than bend down to it – unless they’ve got a midget in the goal.’
‘I remembered,’ Dominic nodded. ‘We’ve got another match in two weeks’ time. Sister Gabriel said there’s only sixteen teams left. There was over sixty to begin with.’
‘Who’s Sister Gabriel?’
‘The games teacher.’
Jimmy said nothing, but was shocked to learn they were being taught football by a nun. ‘That means if you win the next match, you’ll be in the quarter finals. What is it you’re playing for?’
‘Some Merseyside junior cup thingy.’
‘It would be dead good for Pearl Street if St Joan of Arc’s won, you being the captain, like.’
Dominic glowed. ‘I suppose it would.’
‘Do you know about nutmegging?’
‘Isn’t that what you put in Christmas puddings?’
‘No, you daft bugger. I’ll show you what nutmegging is. Let’s see, what can I use for a ball?’ Jimmy snatched the knitted teacosy off the teapot. He threw the cosy on the ground and stood up. ‘Get to the far side of the room,’ he instructed. ‘Now, look. I’ve got the ball and you’re coming straight towards me ready to tackle. Come on, lad, tackle!’
He began to dribble the tea cosy across the floor. Dominic reached for it with his foot, but suddenly, the tea cosy was nowhere to be seen. Mr Quigley chuckled. ‘It’s behind you. I shot it between your legs. That’s nutmegging.’
‘I thought you couldn’t walk proper?’ said Dominic.
Mr Quigley sat down abruptly. ‘Well, me legs have started loosening up a bit lately. Someone told me to do exercises
and I’ve been doing them every day. It’s made quite a bit of difference. I already manage as far as the King’s Arms with only one stick.’
Dominic wondered why he needed a stick at all after all that fancy footwork. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘because perhaps you could come outside into the street and show me how to do nutmegging with a proper ball, like?’
‘Perhaps I will, lad, one of these days.’ Jimmy nodded. ‘Aye, one of these days I will.’
The German onslaught on Russia continued unabated. They advanced like a typhoon destroying everything before them; everything, that is, that hadn’t already been destroyed by the retreating army and the Russian people. The Russians were looked upon by the invaders as untermenschen, sub-humans, which boded ill for the three quarters of a million troops they’d captured by the time hordes of Panzer tanks were a mere fifty miles from Moscow. The citizens of Moscow, including the women and the children, began to build defences around their city and a few days later a state of siege was declared. Odessa fell, shortly followed by Kharkov, and in Leningrad the people starved to death on the streets.
The Germans were desperate for victory before the cold set in, but snow had already fallen in the Caucasus and frost was gripping the Russian Steppes, heralding the onset of their terrifying winter. And, ominously, the Soviet T34 tank was proving to be far superior to the German Panzers; the shells just bounced off.
The leaf which Adolf Hitler had boasted would fall so quickly was tougher than he thought. The leaf hung on, refusing to budge, no matter how frenziedly the tree was shaken.
If the Germans didn’t win soon, if their massive army became bogged down in the raw bleakness of a Soviet winter, ice-bound and snowbound, without the proper equipment and in uniforms unsuitable for such perishing cold, then political commentators predicted it could prove a turning point for the war. The people at large took this with a certain amount of scepticism. So many turning points had been predicted over the last two years, that they were beginning to think they were going around in circles.
