by Maureen Lee
The final words didn’t sound all that strange from the mouth of someone who was an atheist through and through.
Sheila’s bottom lip trembled. ‘Jaysus, Dad! What a dead miserable toast. You’ve made me want to cry.’
‘I’m sorry, luv, but that’s the way I feel.’
‘I’d better get back to the girls,’ said Brenda.
‘And it’s time I put Nan Wright to bed.’ Aggie Donovan bustled out.
Everyone left, and as Sheila washed and dried the glasses, she became aware of a familiar sensation between her legs.
‘Bloody hell!’ she groaned. She’d started a period, yet she’d felt convinced she would conceive when Cal was home. Perhaps her body had all closed up by now. In the past, there’d scarcely been time between babies for things to shrink back to normal. Listlessly, she went upstairs and had just tucked a folded sanitary rag inside her knickers, when the front door opened and Aggie Donovan came rushing in to say she’d found Nan Wright dead on the mat in front of the fire.
‘Oh, but she looked ever so happy, Sheila,’ Aggie sobbed. ‘You know, there was a smile on the ould biddy’s face wide enough to split the flags.’
Jessica Fleming had only been home a few minutes when the light, familiar tap came. She opened the door, but shrank back when Jack immediately took her in his arms and began to touch her.
‘It’s the wrong time of the month,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ he said, embarrassed.
She wished she could tell him, tell someone, how bitterly disappointed she’d felt that morning when she woke up to find she’d started a period. It had only taken one single time to produce Penny.
‘You can go home if you like,’ she said in a hard voice. ‘After all, that’s all you come for, isn’t it?’ She knew it was unfair to take her disappointment out on him. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t conceived.
‘That’s not true, Jess,’ he protested, though he wondered if it was.
‘It is.’ She turned away and went into the living room. ‘We’ve got nothing in common.’
He followed. ‘Yes we have.’
‘What? All we do is argue.’
‘We’ve got Penny.’
‘Oh, God!’ She sat down, looking dazed. ‘How long have you known?’
‘A few weeks, months. What does it matter?’ Perhaps he shouldn’t have admitted he knew he was Penny’s father. She might want something off him, a promise for the future which he didn’t, which he didn’t think he wanted to give.
‘I never want that fact to go beyond these four walls, Jack.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of telling anyone,’ he said stiffly.
She smiled obliquely. ‘Because you’re ashamed?’
‘Of course not,’ he said irritably, and turned the question back on her. ‘Are you?’
‘As if I’d be ashamed of Penny! But I’d sooner people didn’t know I was unfaithful to Arthur.’
He stared at her. She looked tired and drawn, which was unusual for her, normally so full of energy and enthusiasm. It only seemed to add to her beauty, giving her a heartstopping air of frailty which made him want to take her in his arms and comfort her. He reminded himself that they were two opposites, that she stood for everything he hated, that he was drawn to her solely by a hungry need for her soft, luscious body. But how long would she be prepared to carry on the way they were? Women weren’t like men. They didn’t like being dangled on a string. They wanted proper relationships, commitments …
‘Would you like to call it a day, Jess?’ He half wished she would say ‘yes’, then, almost immediately, wished he could unsay the words in case she agreed because he knew he would be bereft without her. She’d brought excitement into his life, re-awakened urges he’d never expected to feel again – and stirred some he’d never known he had.
‘No!’ She was off her chair like a shot, kneeling before him, cradling his head in her hands. ‘Oh, no, Jack!’ She kissed him passionately and, unable to help himself, he began to kiss her back. Gradually, she drew him down until they were lying on the floor.
‘But I thought … you know,’ he stammered, heart pounding with desire as she undid the buttons of her blouse. He buried his face in the frothy cream lace of her petticoat and could feel her nipples, as hard as buds, through the thin material.
‘Don’t worry, Jack,’ she whispered, ‘there’s other things we can do.’
Jessica had no idea where she’d learnt the things she was about to do to Jack Doyle. They just seemed to come naturally once they were together. But she knew one thing with utter certainty, and that was that she hadn’t come back to Bootle just for him. It was when he’d suggested they call it a day that the pieces of the jigsaw had fallen into place, neatly and perfectly, until the picture was clear. She’d come back solely because she wanted another baby. Jack had given her one, which meant he could give her another. She was using him, just as she’d used Arthur and other people in the past. If she became pregnant, she would let Jack down gently and as soon as the war was over she’d be on her way to a bigger house in a better part of Bootle. Shortly, she’d look round for a site and buy every secondhand car she could get her hands on so that she could raise her children in comfort.
Jack groaned as she ran her hands over his broad, muscled body. In the meantime, the achievement of this ambition was proving to be highly enjoyable.
Dear Kitty,
Your friend recognised me, didn’t she? Yes, I used to be a doctor in Walton Hospital. I was struck off the medical register a year ago because I carried out an abortion on a twelve-year-old girl who’d been raped by her father. Since then, I’ve been rather cowardly, unwilling to give up my comfortable home, yet needing to be involved in medicine in some way.
I was always worried I might meet an old patient and now it’s happened, and if it can happen once, it can happen again. I can’t stand the idea of someone like Clara Watkins finding out. Can you imagine the cracks she’d make THEN!
So I’m leaving. I’ve been to see my good friend and confidante, Joyce (Nurse Bellamy), who has always been supportive, and handed in my notice. I’m off to America to be a doctor there, that’s if they’ll have me. If not, I’ll wander down south where I’m sure I can put my skills to good use amongst the poor. I doubt if they’ll care if I’ve been disowned by the stuffy authorities in this country.
Anyway, having given orders all my life, I could never get used to taking them.
Look after yourself, Kitty, dear. Be confident, be self-assured. Don’t take shit off anybody. You’re a lovely person and deserve the happiness I’m convinced you’ll one day find.
I’ve also written a farewell letter to Lucy, but of course haven’t mentioned the things I’ve told you.
Goodbye, Kitty.
Your good friend,
Harriet.
The hospital would never be the same without Harriet. The young woman who took her place, Valerie Simmonds, had dark smooth hair parted in the middle and the face of a saint. Clara immediately took her under her wing and the two quickly became firm friends. As Clara seemed to thrive on trouble, a miniature war developed, with Kitty unwillingly drawn in on one side. Without Harriet’s calming influence, Lucy and Clara almost came to blows at times over the sharing out of the work. An atmosphere of confrontation reigned whenever the auxiliaries retired to the rest room for a break.
Meanwhile, winter set in and bleak skies daily threatened snow which never came, and the carnage at sea continued unabated. Young men continued to arrive at the hospital with pneumonia, frostbite, burns, broken bones and missing limbs. Occasionally there’d be quite ordinary complaints, such as a burst appendix or a minor illness like mumps or German measles. Some men died, leaving anguished relatives for whom the nurses would make cups of tea and offer meaningless words of comfort.
Glyn Thomas, the dark-haired Welshman, quickly read the books which Kitty had borrowed from Jack Doyle and asked for more. ‘Tell him this one’s a load of rubbish,’ he said, pointing
to a paperback entitled The Achievements of Communism in Russia.
‘How would you know?’ demanded Kitty.
‘I’ve already told you I lived in Russia for nearly three years. There were achievements, there’s no doubt about it, but this book doesn’t mention the costs.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ promised Kitty.
Glyn winked. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Me and Lucy are going to the picures to see Fantasia. It’s a full-length cartoon.’
‘Seen it,’ Glyn said promptly. ‘The music’s first rate.’ He was the most knowledgable and well-travelled man she’d ever met, having spent his entire life since leaving school working his way slowly around the world. He’d washed dishes, worked as a chef, a fieldhand, driven lorries, shod horses, built cars for the Ford Motor Company in Chicago, and taken numerous other jobs to support himself in his travels. When the war began, he’d joined the Royal Navy. ‘I didn’t fancy the Army or the RAF,’ he told Kitty. ‘I might have ended up being stationed in the one place.’ His appetite for books was insatiable. When some old yellowing National Geographic and Antique Collector magazines had been found in a dusty cupboard in the basement, Glyn had eagerly read them from cover to cover. He still kept them in his locker to re-read when there was nothing else available. When not reading, he kept the ward amused with anecdotes of his adventurous past and frequently led them in a singsong in his fine baritone voice.
Even Nurse Bellamy was captivated, though Kitty was the one who appeared to have stolen Glyn’s heart, much to the envy of other nurses, particularly Lucy. Kitty felt flattered, because she found his rather raffish charm disturbing and had to keep reminding herself that he was a patient, and patients frequently fell in love with their nurses.
‘I’ve decided to settle down once the war’s over,’ he had said only the day before.
Kitty was mopping the floor beneath his bed. ‘You’ll be dead bored.’
‘Not if I settle down with the woman I love and start a family,’ he replied, his dark eyes twinkling.
‘You’ve got to find her first, haven’t you?’
‘I think I already have.’ There was no mistaking the meaning behind his words.
Kitty said awkwardly, ‘Everything will seem different once you leave the hospital.’
‘No it won’t.’ His expression became serious for once. ‘Think about it, Kitty. Would you fancy living in the Welsh valleys with a wild Taffy who’d wake you up every morning with a cup of tea and “Men of Harlech”?’
‘Get away with you!’ she muttered.
‘I mean it!’
‘You can’t possibly mean it,’ she said, doing her best to sound scathing. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘I know everything there is to know. They say the face is the window of the soul, and that’s definitely true in your case, Kitty, my darling. It’s obvious to all and sundry that you’re beautiful inside and out. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t been snapped up years ago.’ He gave an impish grin. ‘I reckon fate has been saving you just for me.’
By this time, Kitty was cleaning underneath the neighbouring bed and the young sailor there was listening to the conversation with interest. ‘You’d make a handsome couple,’ he said.
‘Is this some sort of conspiracy?’ Kitty asked, exasperated.
‘I’m going to get the entire ward on my side,’ Glyn vowed.
In the end, she told him she might, just might, go out with him once he was discharged and able to think more clearly.
‘But I can think clearly now.’
Kitty recalled Martin McCabe and the trouble she’d got into. ‘I can’t promise any more than that,’ she said firmly.
Stan Taylor sought her out that afternoon to apologise for his behaviour on New Year’s Eve. ‘It dawned on me how kind you’ve been all this time, Kitty, letting me pour my troubles out on your shoulder. Daphne would never have done anything like that. Let me take you to the pictures on Saturday, and this time we’ll talk about nothing but you.’
‘Why wait till Saturday?’ Kitty said gaily. ‘I don’t have to stay in with me dad any more. He’s found company of his own.’
Chapter 12
‘He what?’ said Jack Doyle, shocked to the core.
Kitty had called round to the house in Garnet Street after tea to return his books. She placed the bundle on the table and repeated, ‘He said the top one’s a load of rubbish – and he’d like to borrow some more.’
‘You mean he implied Communism was rubbish?’ Jack sat down suddenly. He couldn’t have looked more stunned if he’d been told the world was going to end.
‘He didn’t just imply it, Mr Doyle, he said it outright.’
‘Yet you say he’s lived there, this bloody know-all Welshman?’
‘For three years,’ said Kitty. ‘Can I have a few more books, please?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Jack put his arms around his books protectively. ‘Not if he’s going to tear them to pieces.’
Kitty smiled. ‘He was just expressing an opinion, that’s all.’
‘Is he allowed visitors?’ Jack asked suddenly.
‘Of course, afternoons and evenings.’
‘In that case, I’ll take the books meself and have it out with him. A load of rubbish, if you please.’
Jack Doyle was nearly ejected from the hospital when the sound of shouting reached the nurses who were having a quiet cup of tea and a ciggie in the kitchen.
‘He said Stalin’s a monster!’ Jack was standing at the foot of Glyn Thomas’s bed, on the verge of apoplexy, when half a dozen scared young women reached the ward.
‘Now, now, sir,’ one said in an attempt to pacify him.
‘Bugger off! A monster! Stalin’s a hero. He’s converted his country from stultifying serfdom into an efficient industrial economy within a generation!’
‘And personally ordered the murder of millions of peasants in the process!’ Glyn shouted from his bed. His face was red with anger and he was clutching his scalded chest painfully.
‘That’s a lie!’ yelled Jack.
‘I’ve seen the bodies.’
‘Stalin’s the saviour of his country!’
‘That’s what they said about Hitler!’
Jack turned to the ward, where the men and a few other visitors were listening open-mouthed to the argument. ‘Did any of you ever think you’d see the day when Stalin was compared to Hitler?’
Half shook their heads and the other half nodded.
A nurse nervously took Jack’s arm. ‘I think you’d better go, sir.’
‘I don’t want him to go!’ Glyn yelled. ‘Let him stay and listen to the truth. What about the labour camps?’ he sneered at Jack. ‘I suppose you’re going to say they don’t exist?’
‘What labour camps?’
‘See!’ Glyn glanced around the ward for support. Unsure what was expected of them, everyone again responded with a shake of the head or a nod. ‘The labour camps in Siberia, where the dissidents are dumped to die; the writers who dare criticise, the politicians unwise enough to ask an awkward question, the ordinary people who for no reason at all find themselves dragged out of their houses in the middle of the night by the Russian equivalent of the Gestapo and are never seen again by their families.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Jack said, disgusted.
‘Have you lived there?’ challenged Glyn.
‘No, but …’
‘Well I have,’ Glyn said triumphantly. ‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes. They’re fine people, the Russians, it’s their leaders that let them down.’ He shrugged. ‘But then, that’s the case everywhere. It’s the scum that rises to the top, and only occasionally the cream.’
‘That’s something I can agree with.’ Jack returned to sit beside the bed. ‘Have you been to America?’ When Glyn nodded, he asked with genuine interest, ‘What’s it like there?’
When the bell went to signal it was time for visitors to leave, Jack gr
owled, ‘D’you want me to come again?’
‘How about tomorrow?’ said Glyn.
Two weeks later, Glyn Thomas was well enough to leave hospital, but still in constant pain and certainly not fit enough to return to his ship. He was put on sick leave, and as he had no family and no home to go to, it was suggested he stay in a convalescent home for a few weeks until his health improved.
When Jack Doyle heard this, he said casually, ‘You can stay with me if you like. I’ve got a spare room as me son’s married and left home. You’ll have plenty of peace and quiet there.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind,’ Glyn said equally casually. ‘I suppose you get lonely stuck on your own.’
‘One thing I never am is lonely. I was just doing you a favour.’
‘I don’t need favours, thanks all the same.’
‘In that case, don’t come.’
‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t come if they paid me.’
It was snowing hard the following Saturday when an ambulance took Glyn to Jack’s house in Garnet Street. From then on, when he wasn’t involved in a fearsome argument with Jack, Glyn began to court Kitty Quigley with a fervour that left her breathless.
Kitty was on the late shift. On the first Saturday when she arrived home at half-past ten, she found him sitting on her doorstep in the freezing snow, slightly inebriated, and singing ‘Men of Harlech’ at the top of his voice. He was wearing civvies; a pair of thick corduroy trousers, a polo-necked jumper topped by a duffel coat. He had no hat, and his dark wavy hair was flecked with ice.
‘You’re supposed to be convalescing!’ she said, aghast. ‘You should be in bed by now – and where’s Jack Doyle? He promised to look after you.’
