Through The Storm

by Maureen Lee

  Kitty thought about the nights when she lay with her head beneath the covers trying to shut out the noise of the bedsprings creaking in the front bedroom and her dad’s anguished groans. It seemed to go on for ages and ages and she felt like an eavesdropper. She was neither disgusted nor shocked, more embarrassed at this highly vocal evidence of passion on the part of her dad, whom she’d thought long past it. It was too intimate to tell Sheila, but she would have loved to know if the groans implied pleasure, not pain, and what was the meaning of the shrill little scream, the only sound from Theresa, which usually came just before the creaking of the bedsprings stopped?

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with meself next week when I’m on afternoons,’ she said instead. ‘It wasn’t so bad last week. I was only in an hour or so before Theresa took herself off to work. Today, for instance, I’ve been bored out of me mind, with madam cleaning all around me and refusing to let me lend a hand, pointing out it’s her house now, not mine. I’m not even allowed in the kitchen.’

  ‘Never mind, luv,’ Sheila said sympathetically. ‘You can always come here.’

  ‘I know, Sheil, but I’m beginning to feel a bit like a stateless person. I’ve no real home. I don’t belong anywhere.’

  Jessica Fleming was the first to see one; two, in fact, both emerging out of Rita’s flat one blowy morning early in March. They were tall fair-haired, athletic young men, as alike as brothers, with bright eyes and healthy sunburnt complexions. The well-tailored uniforms fitted their broad-shouldered frames to absolute perfection; more beige than khaki, the material had a silky, expensive sheen.

  Americans! The men touched their caps and bade her ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ with a confident, easy-going charm. They beamed at Penny, and one murmured she was definitely going to be a heartbreaker when she grew up. Penny beamed back, already well aware of her own charm.

  Jessica returned their greetings politely and was conscious of the fact that both had turned to eye her up from behind as she unlocked the garage door and went inside.

  She was wheeling the bikes outside to be displayed on the stand which Jack Doyle had knocked up out of an old plank of wood, when Rita appeared carrying a paper bag, eyes aglow with excitement. ‘Did you see them? Oh, aren’t they gorgeous? Look what they gave me!’ She opened the bag and Jessica peered inside. It was full of small bars of toffee and chocolate. ‘Sweets, but they call it candy.’ She insisted Jessica take the lot. ‘I’ve still plenty upstairs. You can give some to the kids in your street if there’s too much for Penny.’

  ‘Thanks, Rita.’ Jessica always felt uncomfortable taking gifts from Rita when she considered the way she’d earned them.

  ‘That’s not all!’ Rita’s eyes glowed even more. She took a cellophane packet out of the pocket of her dressing gown. ‘Nylons! This pair’s for you. They’re a size ten.’

  ‘Nylons!’ Jessica said weakly. She’d felt a bit low over the last few days because she was in the middle of another period and her forty-sixth birthday rapidly approached. Not only that, on the news that morning it had been announced that the basic petrol ration would disappear altogether at the end of July, which meant even more cars would be laid up for the duration so there’d be little use for the garage as a source of petrol and the repair side of the business would dry up completely. Even worse, she wouldn’t be able to use the van. But all this was forgotten when she took the cellophane packet and stared in awe at her first pair of nylons. They were like glass, with stark black seams. ‘They’re completely sheer!’ she gasped. ‘I bet you couldn’t tell you had stockings on from the front.’

  ‘They’re the gear, aren’t they?’ Rita said smugly.

  ‘Oh, Rita,’ Jessica cried emotionally. ‘You’re ever such a kind person, you really are. Where did you meet the Americans?’

  ‘The Yanks? Some pub in town. I was with this chap, Tommy, and they were with two girls. We all came back together and had a party, though the girls had to leave early for work. They’re coming again this weekend with a few of their mates. Why don’t you come, Jess?’ Rita offered generously for the umpteenth time.

  Jessica once again refused, saying she couldn’t leave Penny, and anyway the men had looked very young. ‘I’m old enough to be their mother – well, almost.’

  People began to remark, some bitterly, that you’d think there’d been an invasion. American tanks rolled triumphantly off the ships in the Dockie, along Miller’s Bridge and onwards to the main camp at Burtonwood and other sites in Liverpool, whilst a section of the population, consisting mainly of young children, lined the route and welcomed them with the soon-to-be-familiar cry of, ‘Got any gum, chum?’ Suddenly, everywhere you looked, there were brash, noisy, gum-chewing GIs in their expensive, well-cut uniforms – far superior to anything the ordinary British forces wore – acting as if they owned the place with their complacent and irritating self-confidence and automatic assumption that they were God’s gift to women and the best buddy of every man.

  ‘Overpaid, overfed, oversexed – and over here,’ the men grumbled.

  This was undoubtedly true, and all four facts were much appreciated by the young women. Yanks appeared to be made of money, though they made up for this by being generous to a fault. Their girlfriends were sure to be taken to the best restaurants, where they’d be bought the best food and the best wine, and end up being showered with gifts of candy, nylons or expensive scent. Many a father found his opinion of the Yanks altering rapidly when presented with an entire box of Camels or Lucky Strikes or a bottle of American whisky.

  No-one did more to foster Anglo-American relations than Rita Mott. Jessica would arrive for work and find a party still in progress which would carry on all day, and the same party would still be merrily in force when the time came to lock up for the night.

  GIs came down to see what Jessica was up to and frequently gave a hand. She got to know a few of the regulars by name and when they returned they brought oranges and bananas for Penny, fruit which Jessica hadn’t seen in years. They were nice boys, good-natured and eager to please, and seemed more appreciative of the fact that Rita was providing them with a home from home, rather than anything else she might be offering. None appeared the least bit surprised to see Jessica doing a man’s job and to her delight, one actually paid thirty pounds for the Austin Seven she’d been hoarding till after the war, which meant she’d made one hundred per cent profit.

  ‘I’d like my own transport,’ he said, ‘and there’s plenty of gas available on the base.’

  ‘I bet I could have my own garage in the States and they wouldn’t blink an eye,’ she said to Jack Doyle one Saturday morning. There was little to do and they sat talking in the office. Penny was fast asleep on Jack’s knee. ‘America’s full of opportunities. No-one’s ashamed of making money, not like here.’ She knew this would irk him and didn’t care. She was becoming increasingly fed up with their hole in the corner affair, though she was as reluctant as he to allow it to become public.

  ‘They’re not ashamed of folks dying with hunger on the streets, either,’ Jack grunted predictably. ‘It’s each man for himself over there. You’re either a winner or a loser, there’s no in between.’

  That would have suited Jessica down to the ground. She was a winner and always would be.

  A man popped his head into the workshop at that moment to ask about the dark green racing bike outside. Jessica went to see to him and returned five minutes later with thirty shillings in her hand.

  ‘Another sale!’ she sang, though she was frowning. ‘I haven’t had any fresh bikes for a fortnight. I’ve only got ten left and I’m beginning to worry the market has dried up.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Jack said sarcastically. ‘You’ll just have to go to work like everybody else.’

  Jessica ignored him. ‘You know,’ she mused, ‘there’s other things apart from bikes that there’s a shortage of; prams, for instance. I bet all sorts of women have got prams and pushchairs tucked away that they’ll never u
se again.’

  ‘You’ll end up a rag-and-bone merchant like your dad.’

  She still took no notice. ‘Toys are something else I could sell if I could get my hands on them; big toys, like scooters and pedal bikes. And I might advertise for cars – you never know, the Yanks might snap them up.’

  ‘Yanks!’ spluttered Jack with loathing. He couldn’t stand the way they’d arrived, two years late as far as he was concerned, with the frequently declared intention of saving li’l old England from the Germans. ‘I hope you don’t intend fraternising with …’ He paused, he’d nearly said the enemy. ‘With that lot,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Oh, don’t start, Jack,’ Jessica said impatiently. ‘They’re mostly young boys who are lonely and miss their moms and pops.’ She felt unreasonably irritated with him, with herself, with bikes and cars, and with the world in general.

  On Monday, she arrived at the garage to find the upstairs flat quiet for a change, and noticed the curtains were still drawn. There was no sign of Rita all morning and Jessica assumed she’d gone away for the weekend, which she did occasionally. The weather was springlike and Penny was able to play, well wrapped up, in the tiny garden. Jessica felt at a loose end, with nothing to do except sell the occasional gallon of petrol, keep one eye on Penny and the other on the forecourt in case someone wanted to buy a bike. Someone did, which left only nine. The telephone rang soon afterwards; a woman was moving from her house in Aigburth and had three rusting, ageing bikes in her cellar which she didn’t like to leave for the new occupants.

  ‘You can have them for nothing if you’re willing to collect them,’ she said. ‘I just want them out of the way.’

  Jessica promised to come that evening. Feeling slightly cheered, she decided to clean the office and give the workshop a good brush. She put Dennis Mott’s overalls on over her clothes and tied a scarf around her hair. Penny came in to help and Jessica sang at the top of her voice; ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’, which had been her father’s favourite. She really must find out about troop concerts, and now there was something else called Workers’ Playtimes in which concert parties entertained factory workers during the lunch hour. She’d been too busy to do anything so far, but it seemed a shame to waste a voice like hers.

  ‘Ma’am!’

  Jessica jumped. A man was standing at the entrance to the workshop, glaring at her unpleasantly, a stocky American, powerfully built, and at least twice as old as the ones she’d met so far.

  ‘Yes?’ she said coldly. How dare he look at her like that, as if she was something the cat had just dragged in from the street? Penny clutched her mother’s leg nervously.

  ‘What went on here last night?’ He was clearly unwilling to step inside, and was arrogantly waiting for her to approach him.

  Jessica didn’t move. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t give me that, ma’am.’ The contempt in his voice made Jessica’s blood boil. ‘I’ve two men in hospital, so something pretty serious occurred in that apartment upstairs and I’d like to know what it was.’

  ‘How do you know the men were in the apartment upstairs?’

  ‘Because,’ he said with forced patience, ‘it’s where our MPs picked them up after the local police were alerted that a fracas had occurred. The locals then contacted the base at Burtonwood.’ Clearly frustrated at the idea of conducting a conversation from so far away, he came into the workshop and stood in front of Jessica, saying accusingly, ‘It’s no use trying to evade the issue, ma’am. I’m not trying to get you into trouble. I merely want to know what happened.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Jessica. ‘I wasn’t here.’ She liked him even less close up. He had hard blue eyes behind rimless glasses, a tough mouth and smooth tanned skin with a suggestion of growth on his firm round chin, as if he needed to shave twice a day. His close-cropped hair, what she could see of it underneath his cap, was silver. His uniform was impeccable, his bearing stiff and formal. He didn’t look capable of relaxing for a moment.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, and there was a steely edge to his deep voice, ‘the men reported a red-headed woman was the hostess of the … the party last night.’

  Jessica hid a smile. He would clearly have preferred to say ‘orgy’. She was beginning to enjoy playing with him. She removed her scarf so he could see even more of her hair, fluffing it out with both hands tauntingly. ‘I never realised you Americans were so uncivilised,’ she said, pretending to yawn.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s common in this country for people to introduce themselves when they first meet. Who exactly are you?’

  His lips tightened. ‘Major Henningsen, Provost Marshal’s Office, Eighth Army Air Corps, Burtonwood,’ he said stiffly.

  Jessica stuck out her hand. If he didn’t shake it, she’d hit him. ‘Jessica Fleming, Bootle, proprietor of this garage, who doesn’t live in the flat upstairs but somewhere else, and has absolutely no idea what happened last night because she wasn’t here – which she has already told you.’

  He gave her outstretched hand a brief, hard shake. ‘But they said a redheaded woman?’ He obviously didn’t believe her.

  ‘There’s more than one redheaded woman in Bootle. I think you may be looking for Rita Mott. She’s not in at the moment. I’ll tell her you called when she arrives.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he said grimly.

  ‘In that case, wait outside. I’m busy.’

  ‘Don’t like man,’ Penny whimpered. ‘Naughty.’ She gripped Jessica’s leg harder.

  Jessica picked her up. ‘Never mind, darling, he’ll soon be going.’ She turned to Major Henningsen and said tartly, ‘By the way, don’t bother to apologise. After all, maybe you Americans don’t know what an apology is. In this country, it means saying you’re sorry when you’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘I made a mistake, I’m sorry,’ he said in a clipped voice.

  He didn’t look particularly sorry, more irate that she’d dragged it out of him.

  ‘Apology accepted, goodbye,’ Jessica said sweetly.

  Major Henningsen turned on his heel and marched out of the workshop without another word. A few minutes later she heard the sound of an engine starting up and went to look. A jeep was parked on the pavement outside and he drove away, tyres screeching. He must have decided not to wait for Rita. He was several hundred yards down the road, when he braked, reversed the jeep at top speed and backed into the forecourt.

  ‘What does he want now?’ Jessica asked Penny, who responded by hiding her head in her mother’s shoulder when the uniformed figure got out of the vehicle and approached.

  ‘I wonder if you would do me a favour?’ he said.

  Jessica took a step backwards. Although the Americans she’d met so far had been nice boys – apart from Major Henningsen, that is – rumour had it they were only after one thing. ‘What?’ she said warily.

  He laughed for the first time, an unpleasant bark. ‘Jeez, lady, don’t worry, you’re not my type.’ Before Jessica could come up with a suitably crushing response, he went on, ‘It’s Mothers’ Day on Sunday. A few of the boys, the very young ones, are pining for the home country. Would you be willing to have a few over for a meal? The food will be provided, of course.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Jessica replied through gritted teeth. She couldn’t very well refuse. But not his type! What an arrogant, obnoxious pig! He was as far from her type as any man she’d ever met.

  ‘Thanks.’ He returned to the jeep and climbed inside. ‘The boys only need a bit of motherly attention,’ he shouted, ‘and your granddaughter might remind them of the kid sisters they left at home.’

  Jessica was still smarting when Rita came limping home, having spent the night in a police-station cell. She sported a magnificent black eye and her green silk dress was torn in two places.

  ‘What happened?’ Jessica demanded in a shocked voice.

  ‘I met these two black Yanks and brought them home,’ Rita explained
tiredly. ‘They were ever so nice, Jess, proper gentlemen. Then a crowd of white Yanks turned up unannounced and were as mad as hell to find the black ones there. They tried to throw them out, but I wouldn’t let them, which is when I got this.’ She pointed to her half closed eye. ‘Someone passing called the Bobbies, one thing led to another, and they ended up arresting the lot of us.’

  Jessica shook her head worriedly. ‘Perhaps you should keep your head down for a while,’ she suggested.

  ‘Of course I will. I don’t want anyone to see me looking like this,’ Rita said indignantly.

  ‘What I meant, Rita, is that if GIs are turning up unannounced, it looks as if your place is getting a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘Do you honestly think so?’ Rita looked so pleased that Jessica gave up. ‘You’ve had a visitor,’ she said, ‘a major from the Provost Marshal’s office in Burtonwood.’

  ‘A major?’ Despite her pitiful state, Rita perked up. ‘Was he good looking?’

  ‘I would have thought you’d be more interested in what he wanted, not what he looked like.’

  ‘I merely wondered if he’d like to come to one of my parties, that’s all.’

  Jessica guffawed. ‘Ask him and see!’

  Chapter 13

  Jessica asked Kitty Quigley if she would come to tea and help entertain the visitors on Sunday. ‘You’re young and single and used to dealing with young men. I won’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I will, either,’ said Kitty. ‘Would you like me to bring someone else from the hospital? There’s this girl, Lucy. She’ll soon make them feel at home.’

  Lucy was aching to go out with a Yank. It was rumoured that hundreds of girls hung round on Central Station waiting to be picked up when the GIs poured in from Burtonwood, but Lucy didn’t quite have the courage. ‘If me dad found out, he’d kill me.’

  She was thrilled to bits to be invited to tea. ‘Tea sounds dead respectable. I won’t tell me dad about the Americans in case he won’t let me come.’ She patted her dark hair and said thoughtfully, ‘They like blondes best, don’t they, Yanks?’