Through The Storm

by Maureen Lee

  ‘Aren’t you glad we only shook hands on a month?’ Rita said with a grin. ‘Mind you, I wasn’t expecting that letter. Eh, your Penny’s dead smart. Going to be a bricky when she grows up, aren’t you, luv? Where’s her dad, by the way – if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Up in the Lake District. I’ve left him.’

  ‘Have you now?’ Rita’s eyes narrowed. ‘On the market again, are you? Well, you shouldn’t have too much difficulty finding another feller. Is your hair natural red, or is it hennaed?’

  ‘Natural,’ lied Jessica. It was only a partial lie; the henna merely hid the few grey hairs that had begun to appear over the last few years.

  ‘I dye mine.’ Rita touched her bouncy curls. ‘Den’d have a fit if he could see me. I was plain brown when he left.’ She drained her glass and got to her feet. ‘Well, I think it’s time for a cuppa. D’you fancy one yourself? I’ve got some lemonade for Penny.’

  ‘I’ve brought tea and milk with me.’

  ‘Well, it’s no use down here, luv, there’s nowhere to boil water.’

  ‘In that case, I’d love a cuppa,’ Jessica said gratefully. ‘Take my tea. I don’t want to make you short.’

  ‘There’s no need. I’ve stacks of tea. In fact, you can have a packet if you like.’

  Rita left and came back about ten minutes later with a tray set with a frilly cloth and tea things, including a cup and saucer for herself, along with a glass of lemonade. She’d started making up her face which was covered with bright orange pancake.

  Throughout the morning, she kept appearing, each time having done something more to prepare herself for the day ahead. Her lips were painted, her eyes made up, her hair arranged in a daring and rather elaborate style that must have taken ages to do and she’d changed into a skimpy crepe de Chine frock patterned with scarlet poppies. She brought two packets of tea and a tin of corned beef on one occasion and flatly refused to take the money for them.

  ‘I got them for nothing. It wouldn’t seem right, taking money off me friends.’

  Despite the in-built snobbery that still persisted, Jessica felt rather touched that she was already regarded as Rita’s friend.

  Next time Rita arrived with something black over her arm. ‘What size are you?’

  ‘Forty inch hip,’ replied Jessica. She knew she was large, but she also knew she was shapely with it.

  ‘Perhaps this skirt’ll fit you. One of me friends brought it for me, but it’s miles too big. It’s good quality. I think it dropped off the back of a lorry.’

  The skirt, straight, with a kick pleat at the back, had a Gor-ray label. Jessica was instantly enamoured.

  ‘It’s lovely, but this time I insist on paying you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I told you, someone gave it to me. It’s been hanging in me wardrobe for ages.’

  ‘What did your husband do to make you leave him?’ she asked on another occasion.

  Normally, Jessica would have resented such a question, but she was still too pleased about the skirt to mind. ‘He didn’t do anything. He’s a very nice man, Arthur. We got on very well.’

  Rita stared at her blankly for a moment, as if trying to understand. Then she nodded, ‘I know, but you were bored. Strange, isn’t it, how the nicest men are always boring?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’ Jessica decided Rita was remarkably astute.

  ‘You must come to one of me parties some time. I always have at least one a week, usually on Saturdays.’

  ‘Thanks all the same,’ Jessica said hastily, ‘but I couldn’t, not with Penny.’

  ‘Well, if you can get someone to look after her, you’re always welcome.’

  The telephone in the office went around one o’clock and Jessica nearly jumped out of her skin. She ran to answer it, desperately trying to remember the number, but when she picked it up she heard Rita give it in her funny special voice. There must be an extension upstairs.

  ‘Rita, gal,’ a man’s voice boomed, ‘it’s Larry, your favourite man in the world.’

  Jessica hurriedly replaced the receiver, feeling disappointed. She’d rather hoped it was someone wanting their car fixed.

  ‘Well, Penny, I reckon it’s time we had our lunch. We’ve not been exactly busy, this morning, have we?’

  ‘Dada,’ said Penny.

  An hour later, Rita appeared dressed in a royal blue coat with a little veiled hat over one eye. ‘I’m off to the pictures,’ she announced, ‘to see Cary Grant in His Girl Friday. I often used to go to a matinee performance until I had to look after that bloody pump. You’ll probably be gone by the time I get back, so tara.’

  ‘Cheerio.’

  Lucky old Rita, Jessica thought gloomily as she watched her trip away rather unsteadily on her high heels. She supposed she too could have gone to a matinee if she’d stayed with Arthur, but she hadn’t, and some way, somehow, she had to support herself, which meant getting the garage off the ground.

  How? she wondered, after having served several more customers with petrol. One man, who turned out to be a doctor on his rounds, asked if he could make an appointment to have a new clutch fitted.

  ‘Only when you get a licence from the Ministry of War Transport,’ Jess said sadly. ‘It’s a new regulation, starting this month.’

  ‘Good gracious me! They do make things complicated, don’t they?’

  ‘Would you like our mechanic to take a look at the clutch you’ve got?’ Jessica suggested hopefully. ‘It might stand tightening.’

  ‘No thank you, dear. It’s already been adjusted as far as it will go. I’ll just have to get a dratted licence.’ He got into the car, grumbling. ‘I wonder if the Government realises how difficult they make it for me to look after my sick patients?’

  Perhaps I could get some business cards or leaflets printed and distribute them around, Jessica thought as she watched him drive away. Then she remembered there was a paper shortage and it was difficult enough trying to find a writing pad in the shops.

  ‘I’ve bitten off more than I can chew,’ she said to herself. ‘Even if someone came in with a simple job that didn’t require spare parts, they mightn’t be prepared to let me do it because I’m a woman.’

  A few nights later, she aired her grievances when she went over to Brenda Mahon’s with some of her old clothes which she wanted bringing up to date, particularly the turquoise bouclé suit which she intended to wear at Sean Doyle’s wedding. Business had definitely not picked up as the week progressed. She’d cleaned an old man’s plugs for sixpence and offered to de-coke the engine of a van that was puffing clouds of black smoke, but had been huffily rejected. ‘We’ve already got a mechanic at the factory. He’s been meaning to do it for ages. Anyroad, what the hell do you know about engines?’

  Brenda Mahon was a dressmaker patronised by some of the wealthiest women in Liverpool. Since clothes rationing had been introduced, she made her living remodelling outdated outfits, turning two suits into one, adding padding to unfashionable drooping shoulders, taking hems up, turning long dresses into short ones and making sleeves from the surplus material. She still turned out some new garments, but with material at two coupons a yard, these were few and far between.

  A nondescript little woman wearing nondescript clothes because she was always too busy to make anything for herself, she usually sat in the middle of her parlour working away furiously on her treadle sewing machine, her mouth full of pins. Hanging from the picture rail on all sides of the room were an array of beautiful outfits in various stages of completion. Not all were expensive; Brenda’s friends and neighbours paid a mere fraction of what she charged her wealthier clients.

  Sheila Reilly was already there when Jessica arrived, as well as Kitty Quigley, a pretty, timid girl with lovely skin whom she scarcely knew. Although Kitty had apparently been in the same class at school as the two other women, she looked years younger than them both. Sheila was standing on a chair in a half finished frock while Brenda crawled round the floor, her mouth full of th
e inevitable pins, adjusting the hem.

  ‘That’s smart, Sheila,’ Jessica said. The dress was pale grey heavy wool, completely plain with a straight skirt.

  ‘It’s got a matching three-quarter-length jacket,’ said Sheila, ‘with a shiny collar and cuffs.’

  ‘Grosgrain,’ Brenda said through the pins. ‘It’s nice to make something new for a change.’

  ‘It’s for our Sean’s wedding, a present from our Eileen. I could never have afforded it meself. It was supposed to be for her own wedding originally, but then Nick turned up out of the blue armed with a licence, and she got married at a few hours’ notice, didn’t she? Mind you, it was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it, Bren?’ Sheila’s blue eyes turned dreamy, remembering.

  Brenda nodded, ‘Dead lovely. Ever so romantic, just like a novel.’

  ‘It’s a pity you couldn’t have been there, Jess, but there wasn’t time to tell you. Fact, there wasn’t time to tell half the street.’

  ‘It’s what I missed the most when I was away, the weddings and all that sort of thing,’ Jessica said.

  ‘Aye, but don’t forget you missed quite a few funerals, too.’

  ‘Even so, I’d sooner have been here for them.’ Jessica turned to Kitty, who’d not spoken a word since she arrived. ‘Did you go to Eileen’s wedding?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t leave me dad. He’s an invalid, y’see,’ the girl said nervously.

  ‘Was!’ Sheila said sharply. ‘Was an invalid. Since you started work, Kitty, I’ve seen him bobbing up all over the place. He was in Ernie Robinson’s the other day buying ciggies.’

  ‘He’s much better than he was,’ Kitty conceded. ‘It’s just sheer willpower on his part. He’s determined to get better so’s I won’t worry about him when I’m at work.’

  Sheila made a face, as if she didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘Kitty works in the Royal Naval Hospital in Seaforth,’ Brenda explained out of the side of her mouth that wasn’t full of pins. ‘She’s a nurse.’

  ‘Only an auxiliary,’ Kitty said, blushing.

  ‘That sounds awfully responsible and important,’ Jess said warmly.

  ‘Oh, it is!’ Kitty launched into a vivid description of the job she obviously loved. ‘I wouldn’t mind training to be a proper nurse once the war’s over,’ she finished.

  ‘I think that’ll do, Sheil.’ Brenda got to her feet, groaning. ‘Now, Kitty, perhaps you’d like to try your coat on. I won’t be long, Jess. Is Penny by herself?’

  ‘Yes, but she was fast asleep when I left and she rarely wakes up.’

  ‘How are you getting on with the garage?’ enquired Sheila.

  ‘Abysmally,’ Jessica sighed. ‘I’m glad I only took it on for a month. I can’t see me getting it off the ground. There’s all sorts of rules and regulations, and even if there weren’t, no-one’s willing to let me fix their cars because I’m a woman – not that there’s many cars about to fix.’

  Sheila wrinkled her nose dubiously. ‘You must admit, Jess, it’s a dead scream, a woman running a garage.’

  ‘I can’t see why.’ Jessica felt defensive. ‘Your Eileen became a centre lathe turner and we’ve got a woman delivering the post. There’s women in the forces and working on the buses and the trams. Women can do anything men can do as long as they’re properly trained.’

  ‘But, even so, Jess, a garage?’ Sheila shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I’d leave my car with a woman to mend, not that I’m likely to have a car in a million years.’

  ‘Well, if women don’t have faith in each other, there’s not much chance we’ll get anywhere,’ Jessica said testily.

  Support came from an unexpected quarter. ‘Xavier couldn’t even change the gas mantle,’ Brenda Mahon said as she turned Kitty round and began to pin the collar on her blue velour coat. ‘It was always me who had to put a new one in. And it was me who fixed the lavatory when the chain wouldn’t work and screwed the latch on the back door that time it fell off. And I put the shelves up in the kitchen. Xavier wouldn’t know what a screwdriver was if you shoved it up his arse. It would never have crossed the girls’ minds to ask their dad to do anything for them. No, I reckon Jess’s right, Sheil. Women can turn their hands to most things if given half a chance.’

  Xavier Mahon was in the army and had been posted somewhere up in the wilds of Scotland. According to Sheila, Brenda had decided she and her daughters, Muriel and Monica, could live quite well without him. Xavier was no longer welcome in Pearl Street when the army allowed him leave.

  ‘I’ll have your coat ready by the end of next week.’ Brenda patted the collar. ‘Pop over for a final fitting on Monday.’

  ‘Ta,’ Kitty said gratefully. ‘It means I can wear it for Gone With the Wind. I’m going a week on Saturday with a couple of women from the hospital.’

  Brenda turned briskly to Jessica. ‘Now, what can I do for you, Jess?’

  ‘I just want this suit and the two dresses bringing up to date, the shoulders squared and the hems taken up a bit. And perhaps you could take a bit of material out of the skirts so they’re not so full.’ Fashions were becoming more utilitarian and less feminine. Frills, flounces and bows were considered a waste of material. Straight skirts were ‘in’, as well as tailored suits and neat, unadorned blouses. Although Jessica preferred the old, more glamorous, styles to the new, she couldn’t stand the idea of looking old-fashioned.

  She wondered where the money would come from to pay Brenda. Sadly, she supposed it would have to come from Arthur, who’d already sent a cheque, though she’d not banked it yet. There was only about ten pounds left from the housekeeping, and half of that would go when she paid Rita Mott tomorrow – and pay Rita Mott she would, on that she was determined, despite the fact she’d already said on several occasions to leave the rent till business picked up. ‘It’s nice having you here just for the company.’

  Jessica was not prepared to trail all the way up to Linacre Lane every morning just to keep Rita company. Somehow, she had to make that garage work.

  Each day, Jessica found herself closing the place down earlier than the day before as there seemed little point hanging on. Penny, normally so good humoured, was becoming tetchy by then and in need of a proper nap somewhere more comfortable than the pushchair.

  By Friday, she was about to lock the doors at half past four, her coat on ready to go home, when a little battered Austin Seven drove onto the forecourt and stopped by the pump. Jessica almost contemplated turning it away, the profit on a couple of gallons of petrol was scarcely worth putting herself out for, when she remembered something her father used to say all the time. ‘Look after the pennies, girl, and the pounds will look after themselves.’

  She approached the pump and was surprised when the driver got out of the car and turned out to be a woman, a tall emaciated woman of about fifty in rimless glasses with short untidy brown hair turning grey. She wore an expensive fawn trenchcoat over some sort of uniform, a green and white striped frock.

  ‘Just a gallon, please,’ she said in a pleasant, well-modulated voice, ‘and a tin of engine oil, if you’ve got any.’

  ‘I’ve one tin left.’ She’d sent off to the supplier for another dozen tins but had no faith that she would get them. Jessica had no faith in anything to do with garages at the moment.

  After putting in the petrol, she screwed the cap back on, and went into the workshop. The woman followed.

  ‘You’re Jess, aren’t you?’

  Jessica stopped short as she was reaching for the oil. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said politely. ‘Do I know you?’

  The woman laughed engagingly. ‘Not from Adam. Kitty Quigley told us all about you this morning. I work with her at the hospital. My name’s Harriet Mansell.’

  ‘I think she mentioned you last night.’

  ‘According to Kitty, you’re an emancipated woman. I thought it only proper that I purchase my final gallon of petrol from someone who’s fighting for our cause.’

  The mention of em
ancipation and causes made Jessica’s lip curl. She wanted no truck with such left-wing rubbish. Like her father, she’d voted Conservative all her life and would never vote anything else. Nevertheless, this was a customer and she didn’t want to rub her up the wrong way.

  ‘I’m not fighting for a cause,’ she said lightly. ‘I just want to fix a few bloody cars.’

  Harriet Mansell recognised a subtle snub and her brown eyes danced with amusement behind her glasses. She put out her hand for the oil and Jessica noticed she was wearing a pair of beautiful pale kid gloves.

  ‘I’ll wrap it in a bit of newspaper,’ she said, ‘else it might stain your gloves.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was an awkward silence as Jessica searched for paper. She racked her brain for something to say. ‘Why is this your final gallon of petrol?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘I’m laying my car up for the duration this weekend. It seems the patriotic thing to do, let the RAF have the petrol instead of me. I understand you need a drop of engine oil in each cylinder.’

  ‘That’s right.’ The paper found, there was another silence as Jessica wrapped up the tin and Harriet Mansell rooted through her leather handbag for her purse. ‘Do you live far?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘In the wilds of Ince Blundell, I’m afraid, down a long winding lane far off the beaten track.’

  Ince Blundell! That meant the garage was miles out of her way. Jessica wondered if she’d made a special journey as a tiny gesture of support. She felt her conscience prick. ‘Do you know the proper procedure for laying cars up? It’s rather complicated.’

  ‘More or less. You’re supposed to drain the radiator, aren’t you, and mount the car on its axles on blocks of wood?’

  ‘Yes, and let the tyres down to half pressure, then remove them.’

  ‘Bloody hell! That sounds a bastard to do, though I’ll manage it somehow. If a man can do it, I can do it, too.’

  Jessica blinked. She agreed with the sentiments expressed completely, but Harriet Mansell didn’t look the sort of woman who swore.