Through The Storm

by Maureen Lee

  ‘How are you going to get to work without a car?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve bought a bicycle. Had a helluva job finding one, though. I suppose everyone’s after bikes these days. I shall cycle as far as the station and leave it there.’

  Penny had been tucked in her pushchair in the corner of the workshop all this time expecting to be taken home. She was hungry, cold and tired, and began a cry of protest, quietly at first, swiftly raising the tone until it became a bawl.

  ‘You poor dear child, I didn’t notice you there!’ Harriet Mansell’s face broke into a wide smile of delight. ‘What a beautiful little girl! Kitty didn’t mention you had a baby. How brave you are, struggling to get a business going with a child to take care of at the same time.’

  She chucked Penny under the chin and said soothingly, ‘Don’t cry, love. Mummy’ll be taking you home soon.’ Somewhat surprisingly, Penny stopped crying immediately. Harriet looked at Jess. ‘How many children do you have?’

  ‘Just the one. How about you?’

  ‘I’m not married. I suppose it must have felt like a miracle, having a first child at your age.’

  Jessica had a secret dread that one day someone would assume she was Penny’s grandmother. It was almost as bad to be told it was a miracle she’d had a child. ‘I’m only thirty-nine,’ she lied stiffly.

  But Harriet Mansell didn’t appear to notice Jessica’s ruffled feelings. ‘I tell you what,’ she cried. ‘I’ll give you a lift home. After all, I’ve held you up all this time.’

  She positively refused to take no for an answer. They said little to each other on the short journey home, Jessica appeared lost in thought and merely pointed out which way to turn when asked.

  ‘There’s no need to come down the street, it’s a cul-de-sac and you’ll have difficulty turning round,’ she said briefly when they reached the King’s Arms.

  Jessica was just about to open the door of number 10, when she glanced sharply back to see if the car was still there. She couldn’t remember whether she’d thanked the woman or not. But the car had gone.

  ‘Damn!’ she muttered, irritated at her own rudeness.

  The trouble was, she’d just had the beginnings of another great idea.

  Chapter 7

  Jack Doyle had never wanted anything more from life than to earn a decent wage for himself and his family, which was the basic right of all men throughout the world. He’d fought for his country during the First World War, the war to end all wars – so it was said at the time – and was lucky enough to emerge unscathed. He then proceeded to fight for the rights of his comrades on the docks, to gain for them what it was only proper every man have; sufficient wages to pay for a decent roof over your head, food for your table, clothes for your back, and the same for your wife and children.

  It riled him to the point of apoplexy on occasion that there were a handful of people who seemed to think it acceptable that a large mass of the population went without the basic necessities of life, the roof, the food, the clothes, and equally acceptable to rake in massive profits from their sweated labour. Not only that, they were happy to see a million men go without a job at all so they could have their pick of a dispirited and servile workforce.

  But that was before the war. Now, there were more jobs than men to take them. The boot was on the other foot for a change, which made Jack Doyle a happy man.

  He was also an uncomplicated man. He’d taken the death from breast cancer of his wife, Mollie, with quiet stoicism. These things happened. Not every couple were destined to grow old together. Eileen and Sheila were of an age when they could look after him and little Sean, who was only two at the time, as good daughters should. Life had a pattern; babies were born, they grew, got married, had children of their own and one day they died. One day, their children would die, and so on. The day would come when Jack would die, something of which he was unafraid, because it was all part of the pattern. It was nowt to do with God or religion, neither of which he believed in. He believed in simple truths which you didn’t need to learn from a catechism or a Bible; goodness, being straight and honest, standing by your mates and helping your neighbours out when they were in trouble.

  Sometimes things went wrong, spoilt the pattern, like his Eileen getting stuck with Francis Costello who’d turned out to be a bad ’un, but now Eileen was all right, married to Nick. Sheila had a dead good bloke in Calum Reilly, and his Sean would be getting married soon to Alice Scully.

  There were events outside your control, such as wars, which in his case meant the death of Tony, the dearest grandson a man could have, as well as the loss of his good friend, Jacob Singerman. But even these tragedies Jack accepted as unavoidable and therefore exterior to the course of his own destiny.

  So why then, with the pattern of his own life rolling so smoothly before him, did he feel so agitated and on edge?

  If he believed in being straight and honest, then he should be straight and honest with himself, Jack thought drily. It was Jessica Fleming who’d disturbed his uncomplicated life, turning up when he thought he’d never see her again, filling his head with all sorts of disturbing nonsense which made him feel ashamed.

  As long as he lived, he would never forget the night he’d gone into number 5, and there she was standing in the bath in front of the fire, red hair streaming down her back, and without a stitch on. When she saw him she held out her hand, inviting him to take it. He’d struggled with himself for what seemed like eternity at the time, willing himself to resist the hand, to turn on his heel and go. But something within him, some wicked imp in his brain, wouldn’t let him. He took the hand, then he took the woman, and the memory made him shiver with a mixture of disgust and a terrible desire to do it again.

  It was better than it had ever been with Mollie, wild and uninhibited, which made him feel like a traitor. He’d kissed Jess … Jack caught his breath when he remembered where he’d kissed her whilst she cradled his head in her strong white hands. Moll would have been sickened if he’d done anything like that to her.

  Now, when he thought there’d merely been a little crinkle in the pattern, Jess was back. She’d left Arthur, and although she hadn’t made any sign, always treating him coolly and politely when they met, he had a feeling she was waiting for him to make some sort of move.

  And did he want to make that move?

  Christ Almighty, yes! There were nights when he was doubled up in agony in the bed where he’d slept alone for sixteen years, thinking about the soft body that could be his. He imagined exploring it with hands, putting his …

  ‘Jaysus!’ he groaned.

  ‘What’s the matter, Grandad?’

  Jack felt his sleeve being tugged. He looked down. His grandson Niall was looking at him strangely. ‘What made you think there was something the matter?’ he asked. Even to himself, his voice sounded as if it came from somewhere far away.

  ‘You made a funny noise, like you were snoring.’

  ‘Perhaps I’d gone asleep. This match is bloody boring.’

  He’d entirely forgotten where he was, which seemed to be happening quite often lately. He stamped the earth with his size twelve boots, as if trying to re-establish contact with reality. It was Saturday morning and they were at Linacre Lane football ground where Dominic, Sheila’s eldest lad, was playing in some sort of match, an important one according to Jimmy Quigley. If they won, St Joan of Arc’s would go into the quarter finals. Jimmy was running up and down the edge of the field like a maniac yelling instructions to Dominic. You’d never think he’d needed two sticks to get as far as the King’s Arms less than a month ago.

  ‘Shoot, lad,’ Jimmy screamed. ‘Shoot!’

  There was an appreciative burst of applause from the small crowd lining the pitch, composed mainly of other lads from the two schools concerned and quite a few parents, as well as half a dozen of the nuns from St Joan of Arc’s. One of them was waving her fists and jumping up and down like a Jack-in-the-box which had gone completely crazy.

/>   ‘Did it go in?’ Jack asked vaguely. He’d already begun to return to the world occupied only by himself and Jessica Fleming.

  Niall said scathingly, ‘Of course it went in, Grandad. That means we’re winning three–one.’

  ‘Good.’

  Part of the problem was he didn’t like the woman. In fact, he couldn’t stand her. Bert Hennessy, her dad, had been the epitome of a scavenging capitalist, earning his living by taking from the poor to make himself wealthy, and just as Jack’s daughters had inherited his blue eyes, Jessica had inherited Bert’s rotten philosophy. Not for her an honest day’s work in a factory or a shop. No, she had to start her own business. Embracing Jessica was like embracing everything he had fought against over his entire life.

  ‘Fine match, eh, Jack?’ Jimmy Quigley came up, rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm.

  ‘Excellent,’ Jack said, doing his best to equal Jimmy’s enthusiasm. The crowd were dispersing so he assumed the match was over. ‘Are we going home now?’

  ‘As soon as your Dominic’s got changed. You want to keep an eye on that lad, Jack. He could become a professional one day.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’

  Jimmy began to chat about the game. He seemed to have memorised every single kick and assumed Jack had done the same. Jack managed not to disgrace himself; after all, Dominic was his eldest grandson and entitled to have his grandfather taking an interest. Apparently, he’d scored two of the goals and been responsible for the other. Jack made appropriate approving grunts from time to time.

  ‘D’you mind walking home with the lads, Jimmy?’ he said when the man paused for breath in the middle of his eulogy. ‘There’s someone I’d like to have a word with.’

  ‘Of course not, mate. I’ll see you in the King’s Arms tonight.’

  The garage which Jessica Fleming had taken over was directly opposite the football ground, and the workshop doors were wide open as Jack Doyle crossed the road towards it. There was a large notice attached to the petrol pump, BICYCLES FOR SALE AND WANTED. He wondered if it had always been there, or was this some daft idea of Jessica’s?

  There was the sound of women’s laughter coming from the back of the workshop where Jess was kneeling on the floor beside an upturned bike cleaning the rusty spokes with emery paper and another woman with unnatural carrot-coloured hair and still in her dressing gown was watching.

  Neither noticed he was there for several seconds as he stood looking at the woman who disturbed him so greatly. She wore a pair of navy-blue overalls which were too short in the leg, exposing slender ankles. Although she’d tied a scarf around her red hair, little tendrils lay against her long white neck which moved gently as she rubbed the spokes. She was clearly putting every ounce of energy into the task.

  ‘Oh, we’ve got company!’ The other woman was the first to become aware of his presence. She looked at him coyly, pouting her lips in what she must have assumed was a seductive manner. ‘And what can we do for you, luv?’

  Jack felt uncomfortable. He could have sworn the words held a double meaning.

  ‘Hallo, Jack,’ Jessica said sedately.

  ‘I just came to see how you were getting on, like,’ he mumbled.

  ‘In that case, I’ll love you and leave you.’ The top of the woman’s flowered dressing gown had fallen open, revealing a black lace nightie underneath. She paused too long before clutching the front together and giving Jack another coy look. ‘See you Monday, Jess.’

  ‘Have a nice weekend, Rita,’ Jessica said. The pair were obviously great mates.

  ‘Where’s Penny?’ Jack asked when the woman had left.

  ‘Asleep in her pushchair in the office,’ Jessica shifted her position, twisting her shoulders as if they were hurting.

  Jack gestured around the workshop. ‘This is no place for a baby.’ He was angry with her for no reason he could think of, though perhaps the mere fact he was there was enough. He felt, unreasonably, that she’d drawn him into the place against his will.

  ‘Penny’s okay,’ Jessica said brusquely. ‘She’s happy anywhere.’

  ‘It’s not right,’ Jack burst out. ‘Why don’t you leave her with our Sheila and get a proper job like other women?’

  ‘Because Penny’s my child, not Sheila’s. It’s not right, shifting the responsibility onto someone else.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t you go back to Arthur?’ he said crossly. That would be the solution to everything. If she were out of his sight for ever, perhaps the longing for her soft white body would lessen. He’d forget her and life would return to. its inevitable and predictable pattern.

  Jessica stopped work and looked at him with a mixture of amusement and outrage. ‘You’ve got a nerve, Jack Doyle,’ she snorted. ‘I’ve already told you once, it’s none of your business how I conduct my life. Did you come all this way just to tell me to go back to Arthur?’

  ‘I happened to be in the vicinity.’

  She tossed her head and he noticed, fascinated, the way the little red curls on her neck fluttered wildly. ‘The trouble with you, Jack,’ she said hotly, ‘is you and your ilk can’t stand the thought of a woman being independent. It makes you feel scared, seeing one of us making a living on her own, particularly when she’s doing a man’s job. Perhaps I should have taken up dressmaking like Brenda Mahon and no-one would have minded so much.’

  ‘It’s nowt to do with that,’ he said, equally hotly. ‘I was thinking of Penny, that’s all.’

  ‘Penny’s none of your business, either.’ She squatted back on her heels and began to rub her right shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘My shoulder’s hurting a bit, that’s all.’

  Despite himself, Jack’s innate chivalry came to the fore. ‘Here, let me do that for you. It’s no job for a …’ He bit his lip as he shoved her to one side, removed his jacket, and began to rub the spokes with a fresh piece of emery paper which was lying on the floor. ‘What are you up to, anyroad? I thought this was a garage, not a bike shop.’

  ‘It’ll be both from now on.’ She was behind him and he couldn’t see her face, but her voice was full of determination. ‘Someone mentioned how hard it was to get bikes nowadays. I drove round all the second-hand shops and pawnshops this morning and managed to get three.’ For the first time, he noticed two more bikes leaning against the wall, both in better condition than the one on which he was working.

  ‘I suppose you’ll sell them at a profit,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘There wouldn’t be much point in doing it otherwise. I shall put an advert in the Echo this weekend.’ No, two adverts, thought Jessica; one under Articles for Sale and the other for Articles Wanted – and she’d put them in the Bootle Times as well. She’d left the telephone number of the garage with the shops that morning with the request they kindly let her know if they got more bikes in, and had written to Arthur and told him that, if things went the way she hoped, she would need the van, after all.

  ‘And if someone who’s hard up for a few bob offers you a bike, you’ll tell them it’s worth nothing, but you’ll take it off their hands for peanuts, just as a favour like.’ Jack could scarcely hide his contempt. ‘That’s what your dad used to do.’

  ‘I shall drive an honest bargain,’ Jessica said coldly.

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘I’m offering a service, Jack, a selection of bicycles all under one roof.’ She knew he didn’t like her, the attraction between them was purely physical, and she wasn’t prepared to change in order to alter his opinion – he had to take her as she was or not at all. Nevertheless, she felt uneasy that he seemed to think what she was doing was somehow dishonest. ‘Every time you buy a packet of cigarettes or a pound of sugar someone makes a profit. It’s the way of the world.’

  ‘Shopkeepers get their goods fair and square, not like your dad. The way he conducted business was little short of highway robbery.’

  Jessica had reached the same conclusion herself some while back.
She recalled when Bert Hennessy used to come home to their house in Pearl Street crowing over the fact he’d persuaded some poverty-stricken old women to part with a family treasure; a dish, a statue or a painting, which had perhaps been a wedding present and worth little when given, but become valuable with the passage of time. She’d crowed with him, particularly when the item was sold at a vast profit. She was an adult and Bert was dead before, looking back, she realised it was neither an honest nor an honourable way to make a living.

  ‘My father was wrong,’ she conceded briefly. ‘I shall offer everyone a fair price for their bikes.’ She’d only feel uncomfortable if she didn’t.

  Jack turned, eyebrows raised. To admit, to him of all people, that Bert Hennessy had been wrong, in other words a crooked, twisting bastard of the worst sort, must have taken some courage. He couldn’t help but admire her. She might well be thoroughly irritating, but she was tough and a fighter. ‘As long as you do, I’ll come and give you a hand from time to time.’

  He regretted the offer the minute he’d made it. It wasn’t that he minded the work, but he did mind helping to make a profit in a way he still felt wasn’t entirely above board, all of which only made him feel angry with Jess again, as if she’d forced the offer out of him against his will.

  ‘There’s no need,’ Jess said haughtily. ‘The whole thing’s my idea. I don’t expect help from anyone.’

  ‘There might be odds and ends you find hard to do, rusty bolts for instance,’ he argued – why was he arguing when he’d just regretted offering to help? ‘You haven’t got the strength to move this saddle, it’s completely rusted in.’

  ‘If there’s something I can’t do, I’ll just have to find a way to do it,’ Jess argued back, somewhat illogically. She noticed the spokes were gleaming on one wheel and he’d already nearly finished the other, whereas she’d spent all morning cleaning only a few. He stood up, turned the bike upright and clutched the saddle in his big hands. It twisted slightly one way, twisted more the other, and gradually began to move freely as he kept on. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up and she saw the muscles in his arms ripple. The coarse working trousers tightened over his thick haunches as he put his entire strength into removing the saddle, which must have been fixed on for years.