Through The Storm

by Maureen Lee

  Dale Tooley leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths to try and clear his head. He reckoned he’d have a job dragging the boys away. Wayne was cheek to cheek with a cute blonde and the pair looked as if they were glued together. The Andrews Sisters finished ‘Oh, Johnny’ and began ‘I’ll Be With You in Apple Blossom Time’.

  ‘I’ll let this be the last waltz,’ he thought. He paused at the edge of the crowd encircling the dancers and lit a cigarette to sober himself up. No-one had yet noticed he was there. He blew the smoke out slowly as his eyes searched for the other two boys. They were chatting away to a couple of women and looked as happy as larks. He was about to drop his eyes, when he saw the girl.

  Jeez! She was Irish as the Pigs of Trogheady and the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, with a mass of brown curls and cheeks like roses. There was an innocence about her, a purity, that unexpectedly tore at his heart. She was totally different from the girls he’d come across so far in England, the ones who hung about the base, prepared to trade their bodies for a night out and a pair of nylons. This girl was one in a million.

  He flicked his cigarette away, unaware that it was immediately picked up by a young boy who scurried into an entry to smoke it out of sight of the grown-ups. The girl was talking to someone, and she looked round, startled, when Dale asked, ‘Can I have this dance?’

  ‘Oh!’

  Her eyes were hazel, wide apart and completely trusting. Dale felt his insides melt. Perhaps it was the drink, but he wanted this girl more than he’d ever wanted any woman before. She glanced around her wildly, as if searching for a means of escape, and when she saw there was none, she smiled, lifted her arms for him to take her, and Dale was lost.

  Her hair was like wild silk fluttering against his face and her hand felt soft and small in his. ‘What’s your name?’ he mumbled in her ear.

  ‘Kitty. Kitty Quigley.’

  ‘Hi, Kitty. I’m Dale Tooley.’

  She smiled again, her face only inches from his, and he could almost taste the sweetness of her breath. It took a sheer physical effort on Dale’s part not to lean over and kiss her pretty pink lips.

  ‘Hi, Dale,’ she said, and within that second, Kitty Quigley fell completely and totally in love with Dale Tooley.

  Major Henningsen telephoned Jessica at the garage the next day. ‘Thanks,’ he said grudgingly. ‘The boys had a great time.’

  ‘Glad to be of service,’ Jessica replied.

  ‘No doubt you’ll be pleased to hear the apartment over the garage has been declared a no-go area to the men from here.’

  ‘I’m neither pleased nor sorry. It makes no difference to me what goes on up there.’ There were plenty of Americans stationed elsewhere, and Jessica had no doubt that once Rita’s black eye had faded, the shenanigans would continue in full force.

  There was a pause, and she was about to say goodbye and put the phone down, when the curt voice said, ‘I’d like to ask another favour.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘The officers are holding a party a week this Saturday at the Dorchester Hotel in Rodney Street, and I wondered if you were free.’

  Jessica held the receiver at arm’s length and looked at it in astonishment. Just as if she’d go out with him! She returned the receiver to her ear, laughed incredulously, and said, ‘I thought I wasn’t your type.’

  ‘You’re not, dear lady, you’re not. I merely asked if you were free. I heard you sing the other day and you sounded like a professional. I was going to ask if you would entertain us.’

  She felt as if she’d like to curl up and crawl into a hole after such a comprehensive misunderstanding. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said weakly, though she longed to start singing again.

  ‘We’ll send a staff car to collect you and take you home – and there’ll be refreshments laid on.’

  Jessica thought about the lavish food the day before. She’d been too wrought up to enjoy a bite herself, and by the time the neighbours had helped themselves, the parlour and kitchen looked as if they had been attacked by a plague of locusts. Paddy O’Hara had even taken the bones for Rover. It would be nice to have something to eat in comfort – and if they were sending a car!

  ‘I don’t suppose it would hurt,’ she said with feigned reluctance.

  ‘You can bring your granddaughter if you like.’

  Jessica scowled and snapped, ‘She’s not my granddaughter, she’s my daughter.’

  A funny little coughing noise came from the other end of the line, and she realised he was chuckling. ‘I know. You’re so alike she couldn’t be anything else. I was just teasing.’ With that, he rang off.

  Brenda Mahon cut the sleeves and part of the bodice away from one of Jessica’s old dance dresses and made two narrow straps instead to hold it up. The material was red, slippery satin, very heavy, and the dress was snugly form-fitting down to the hips, from where it swirled out in a great circle of material which fell against her legs in deep folds.

  ‘The Yanks’ll drop dead when they see you in that, Jess,’ Brenda said admiringly when Jessica tried the finished garment on.

  ‘Arthur thought I was wrong to wear red with red hair. He said it clashed.’

  ‘It does, but it looks really striking.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Jessica smoothed her hands over her hips with a satisfied sigh. ‘Are you very busy? I might have a few more things altered.’

  ‘I’m always busy.’ Brenda explained that the Government had announced Utility clothes would be brought in that summer. ‘Frocks’ll all be virtually the same, like a uniform: much shorter, dead plain, no pleats, and they’re cutting down on colours.’ Appliqué would be banned and there would be no more lace on underwear.

  ‘I don’t see how that’ll help us win the war,’ Jessica remarked.

  ‘It cuts down on manufacturing and imports,’ Brenda said knowledgeably.

  ‘In that case, you’ll be busier than ever with women wanting to look different.’

  Brenda shook her head. ‘No, I’ll be busy with women wanting their frocks altered to look the same. They’d feel unpatriotic if they looked different.’ She giggled. ‘It’s not just us women. Even the men will have to go without turn-ups on their trousers and there’ll be no more double-breasted coats or pockets on pyjamas.’

  ‘Strewth!’ gasped Jessica. ‘Very soon, the Government will be asking us to go round stark naked in order to win the war.’

  Later that night, Jessica tried the dress on again, twisting to and fro in front of the wardrobe mirror in the spare bedroom so as not to disturb Penny, who was asleep in the front. She had to wear her black strapless corselette underneath, which nipped her waist in so tightly she could scarcely breathe, though it was worth it, giving her an hourglass figure. ‘I’m not bad for nearly forty-six!’ she thought proudly.

  The dress still on, she went downstairs and tried her hair in a variety of different styles before the mirror over the fireplace. She’d just decided she’d wear it loose for the concert, with her marcasite and mother-of-pearl earrings and pendant, when Jack Doyle came in through the back door. He’d been coming that way for weeks, worried he’d be noticed waiting to be let in the front as the nights rapidly grew lighter.

  He stood in the doorway, almost disgusted with himself as desire engulfed his body at the sight of her gleaming white shoulders which contrasted starkly against the scarlet thing she was wearing.

  ‘What’s that, a nightgown?’ he growled.

  She threw back her head and laughed at him in the mirror. ‘Of course not. It’s an old dance frock. Brenda just altered it for me.’

  ‘You don’t intend wearing it outside, surely?’

  ‘I’ll be wearing it a week on Saturday. I’m singing at a concert at the Dorchester Hotel.’

  ‘Not in that. I won’t let you.’

  She turned and regarded him coldly. ‘You can’t stop me, Jack.’

  Jack knew it would be a waste of time arguing. She was right. ‘Then I’ll come with you.’ />
  ‘You’ll do no such thing. The Americans will think you’re my chaperon.’

  ‘The Americans?’

  ‘It’s a concert for American officers.’

  He could scarcely contain his rage. Americans! Officers! In that frock! He thrust his hands into his pockets, scared what he might do to her if she provoked him further. ‘What’s happening with Arthur?’ he asked.

  She shrugged, surprised. ‘I don’t know. All I’ve had is a letter to say he’s joined the Army. Why?’

  ‘I was just wondering if you intended breaking off with him legally like, that’s all?’

  ‘I hadn’t given it much thought,’ she said carelessly. ‘Why?’ she enquired a second time.

  Jack emitted a deep breath and drew it in again like a gasp. He was on the verge of proposing, driven almost to distraction at the thought of her flaunting herself in that frock in front of a crowd of Yanks, yet knowing he had no power to prevent her.

  ‘I dunno.’ He took another deep breath. ‘Will you … should we …’ He paused, floundering, unable to put his tongue around the words.

  She wasn’t listening. Oblivious to his inward torment, she was undoing the fastenings down the side of the frock, her back still to him.

  The moment was lost. She stepped out of the red satin. Underneath she wore a tight black boned thing with suspenders holding up her stockings. Mollie would have considered such a garment indecent, and there was a time when he might have done so himself. Jessica undid the suspenders and began to unpeel her stockings in a slow suggestive way, glancing at him from time to time in the mirror.

  ‘Jaysus!’ He put his arms around her, tore the black thing away from her breasts and cupped them in his large hands. He began to kiss her neck, her shoulders. ‘Don’t go to the concert, Jess,’ he pleaded. ‘Come out with me instead.’ They could go somewhere in town where there was no chance of being seen together.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jack. I’ve promised. I’d be letting people down.’

  Niall Reilly, Georgie Beamish, and the entire third-year class of St Joan of Arc’s made their First Holy Communion the following Sunday, Easter.

  Jimmy Quigley doubted if he’d ever felt so proud in his life as he stood in the pew behind the row of youngsters in their gleaming white frocks and shirts – though none gleamed so brightly as did Georgie. It was twenty years since he’d stood almost in the very place and Kitty had gone through the same rigmarole. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he envisaged doing the same thing a second time around. It occurred to him that he felt younger now than he’d done then. There was a brief moment of regret when the ceremony was over, they went out into the churchyard, and instead of a bright, girlish face turning eagerly to kiss him, Georgie merely shrugged and twisted his lips churlishly when Jimmy tried to shake his hand, father to son, like. It was a pity the lads couldn’t bring themselves to be a bit more friendly. Despite encouragement, they positively refused to call him ‘Dad’. All Jimmy could do was hope they’d come round eventually.

  He noticed that, unlike twenty years ago, there were scarcely any dads present. Those who weren’t already in the Merchant Navy had been called up into the armed forces, though Cal Reilly had arrived home the day before. Cal, like dozens of other Bootle men, had been transferred to the Arctic convoys, the most dangerous route of all. Their ships turned into blocks of ice and the equipment froze solid to the decks. Last month, two hundred and seventy-three Allied merchant ships had been lost to German planes and U-boats.

  Jimmy glanced across at Sheila. She was holding her sister Eileen’s baby in one arm and hanging on to Cal like grim death with the other. Dominic caught Jimmy’s eye and gave him a wide, cheerful grin. Jimmy pretended not to see and turned away. For the barest moment, he traitorously wished Georgie was a bit more like that scally, Dominic.

  Afterwards, they walked home along the Dockie. Theresa liked a short stroll after Mass. ‘That’s where I used to work,’ said Jimmy, pointing to the tall gates of Gladstone Dock.

  ‘Y’said that last week,’ grumbled Billy.

  ‘Did I?’ Anxious to please the lads, Jimmy kicked a tin can in their direction. Unable to resist, Georgie kicked it back.

  ‘Jimmy!’ Theresa exploded. ‘You’re making a show of us.’

  ‘No-one’s looking.’ His attention momentarily diverted, Jimmy missed the can and it rolled into the road. He ran to fetch it and behind him a car came to a halt with a screech of brakes.

  ‘Mind where you’re going. I nearly ran you over,’ a voice called irritably.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ Jimmy tipped his hat apologetically at the driver, a posh geezer in a bowler and a pin-striped suit who looked vaguely familiar. The man stared back, as if he was trying to place him in turn.

  ‘That’ll learn you,’ Theresa said nastily. ‘If you’re not careful, I’ll end up a widow again.’

  On the day Jess was due to sing at her concert, Jack caught the bus to Melling to see his daughter, Eileen, and his youngest grandchild. Spring had suddenly burst out with a vengeance. The hedges were covered with a spattering of green and the sun shone out of the milky blue sky with a welcome warmth.

  ‘It’s about time I started on the garden,’ he grunted, and with barely a glance at Nicky and without even waiting for a cup of tea, he went straight outside.

  He’d always wanted a garden. It was the only thing he’d missed throughout his entire adult life spent living in Bootle with only a tiny patch of yard. Now Eileen had an acre or more and Jack was in his element. No member of his family had wanted for basic vegetables over the past year, nor rhubarb and cooking apples – there’d even been strawberries in June. He thrust the spade fiercely into the ground. The soil was black and damp and soft. Immediately he began to feel at one with the earth and Jessica Fleming was forgotten, or so he told himself.

  Eileen came out after a while and regarded him worriedly. ‘Do you intend turning the entire garden over in a single afternoon, Dad? You’ll have a heart attack at the rate you’re going.’

  She persuaded him to come inside for a drink and a smoke. ‘I managed to get ten ciggies in the post office. Anyroad, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘Alice is expecting a baby in August,’ Eileen said when they were seated in the living room and he was gratifyingly puffing on the first cigarette he’d had in weeks. Nicky, eight months old tomorrow, a handsome little chap who, unlike his dad, rarely smiled, stared at him solemnly from the playpen in which he was sat clutching a teddy bear.

  ‘Our Sean, a dad!’ Jack suddenly felt very old. It had always been a quiet dream that his three kids would end up settled with families of their own, but now he felt, unfairly, that he was being abandoned. He blamed it all on Jessica for upsetting the pattern he’d so carefully planned. He thought of Penny, still a baby. It would be many years before she’d grow up and get married.

  ‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’ laughed Eileen. ‘He was such a flirt, never out with the same girl twice until he met Alice.’

  ‘How come you know, Eileen? Our Sheila didn’t mention it when I saw her this morning.’

  Eileen looked uncomfortable. ‘Alice came all the way out here yesterday to tell me. She’s convinced our Sheila doesn’t like her.’

  ‘Neither me nor Sheila liked Alice much at first,’ Jack conceded, ‘and even now I’d have preferred Sean to marry someone carrying a bit less baggage. Five kids, a wife, and now a babby on the way! It’s a big responsibility for a lad of nineteen.’

  ‘It’s no good crying over spilt milk, Dad,’ Eileen said flatly. ‘They’re married, Alice is expecting, and that’s all there is to it. The thing is, how on earth are they all going to fit into that cramped little flat in Miller’s Bridge?’

  The problem drove Jack back into the garden, taking the ciggies with him, where he turned the black earth over and broke it into pieces even more energetically than he’d done before. Alice’s place in Miller’s Bridge was poky in the extreme, with just two tiny bedrooms, a l
iving room and a basic back kitchen that could only be described as Victorian. The lavatories outside were shared with other families in the block. The Scully boys slept in one room, Alice and her two sisters in the other. He hated to think where Sean laid his head when he was home on leave, but presumed it could only be on the floor. Jack attacked a clod of earth with hatred in his heart for the property owners who fattened their wallets by cramming the poor into substandard accommodation that wasn’t fit for animals – and for the politicians who allowed it to happen. If they’d let him, he would have built a house for his lad with his own bare hands.

  He lit another ciggie and cut the grass on the small lawn with the ancient mower which the previous owners of the cottage had left behind. It was a waste of good growing space and he’d have liked to turn it over to vegetables, but Sheila’s kids needed somewhere to play when they came, and Nicky would soon be walking.

  When Nan Wright died at Christmas, he’d put in an application for number 1 on behalf of Sean and Alice, willing to pay the increase in rent out of his own pocket, but so many folks had lost their homes in the Blitz that his application had been just one of many, and some other family had been successful. According to Sheila, they’d paid the rent collector a few bob on the side as a bribe.

  The lawn finished, he trimmed the hedges, pruned every bush in sight, and could only be persuaded to stop when Eileen announced Kate Thomas had turned up for tea. By then, all the ciggies were gone.

  He liked Kate. They usually talked about politics, and despite their totally different backgrounds, they agreed on most things. He eagerly went indoors.

  ‘Hallo, luv,’ he beamed. Her little scrubbed face and untidy hair posed no threat, unlike Jess Fleming who oozed danger from every pore. Little did Jack know, but Kate Thomas loved him far more deeply than Jessica ever had or ever would.

  The lights in the ornate dining room of the Dorchester Hotel were dimmed except for the one over the grand piano. There were about seventy people there, more than half American officers, the remainder guests, both men and quite a few smartly dressed women. Against one of the walls stood several white-clothed tables laden with food and drink. The pianist, an elderly man in evening dress, had already agreed the programme with Jessica, who’d brought her own music with her. The colonel who appeared to be in charge of the proceedings banged on the piano with a glass tankard, the pianist winced, and everyone fell silent as Jessica was introduced as a British nightingale who was about to entertain them.