by Carol Rivers
Connie sighed, her chin resting on her hands. So much history! And now there was more in the making. Would Hitler ever set foot on these shores?
‘Mr B. is stringing it out tonight,’ Ada whispered noisily, bringing Connie sharply back to the present.
Connie looked over her shoulder to where Ada was frowning. Mr Burns was assiduously checking the last of the accounts.
‘And we haven’t been busy either,’ Connie agreed.
All the staff of the shipping office were looking forward to being dismissed. As usual on Christmas Eve, they would hurry to the canteen, make merry for an hour, then scramble as the hooter blasted.
‘Happy Christmas, Ada – Connie! Enjoy your holiday and we’ll see you back safe and sound on Friday,’ said Mr Burns at last, slapping his ledger closed. He walked over to hand them their Christmas cards.
‘Thank you, Mr Burns,’ the girls chorused.
They opened their envelopes and were shocked to discover that their boss had deviated from tradition. Fat-breasted red robins and seasonal greetings had been exchanged for texts.
‘Little drops of water,’ purred Ada, attempting not to laugh, ‘little grains of sand, lots and lots of buckets standing close at hand. Yards and yards of hosepipe ready in the hall, that’s the stuff to search for, when the incendiaries fall!’
Connie had to look away as Ada almost choked. ‘Wh . . . what does yours say?’ she spluttered.
‘When lengthy is the butcher’s queue,’ Connie began, aware that Mr Burns, who had returned to his desk, was awaiting their reaction. ‘And joints and sausages few—’ Connie had to stop as Ada slapped her hand over her mouth. She tried again. ‘We say whilst facing fearful odds, it’s in the lap of all the gods, what we shall have for Christmas dinner!’
Ada made a choking sound. She buried her red face in her handkerchief. Connie replaced the card in the envelope and smiled at her boss, who was now looking at them expectantly. ‘Thank you, Mr Burns, lovely cards.’
‘A pleasure, Connie.’
‘Thank you, Mr Burns,’ croaked Ada, about to burst.
‘Well, off you go, girls. And as the cards indicate, keep your wits about you.’
‘We will.’
Connie and Ada fled to the cloakroom. For a good ten minutes they wiped the tears from their eyes. Connie splashed cold water on her face and Ada sat on the lavatory, wiping the trail of black mascara from her cheeks.
‘Hosepipes!’ Connie gasped, her sides aching.
‘Sausages!’ Ada screamed.
By the time they had composed themselves and arrived at the canteen, Len was waiting for them. ‘Thought you two were never coming!’
‘Did you get a card from Mr Burns?’ they asked at once.
Len grinned as he stood his offering of VP wine on one of the tables. ‘Yes and very appropriate it was too. A lengthy discourse on the merits of first aid in the workplace.’
The girls were in fits of laughter again and by the time some of the other staff came to sit with them, a knees-up had started. The men were singing ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’ and ‘It’s A Long Way to Tipperary’ and the canteen staff, relieved to be released from the hot kitchen, had launched into a repertoire all of their own.
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ Connie asked Len, who was pouring a second round into their chipped and slightly brown canteen cups.
‘It’s the Lake District this year,’ he replied in a dramatically posh voice. ‘One of them hotels on the edge of the water, a three-course dinner and cocktails afterwards on the veranda. Or is it before?’
‘You’re joking?’ cried Ada, pink cheeked with a mixture of Whitbread, VP and envy.
‘Course I am,’ Len chuckled. ‘Can you really see Mother sitting in her sparklers and fur, chatting sweetly to a dinner companion? No, I don’t think so. In fact it’ll be more like spam and mash if I have to cook, because Mother wouldn’t know the difference anyway. She doesn’t even know what day of the week it is.’
‘How is she . . . er . . . healthwise?’ Connie asked tactfully.
‘Dangerous,’ Len growled as he knocked back his drink. ‘She smokes like a trooper and drops her dog ends alight all over the place. The gas was on for ten minutes the other night before I discovered what the smell was.’
‘Has she seen the doctor?’
‘Yes, and he’s still recovering.’
Once more the laughter flowed, though Connie knew Len made light of what must be a worsening situation at home. He’d never married although he wasn’t bad looking. But what woman was going to fall into his arms with an eccentric mother-in-law to contend with? Connie gave him his present, a book on gardening as she knew he had a little veggie patch and was keen on growing his own. He kissed her cheek warmly and poured her another drink which she eventually passed to Ada.
When the hooter went there was a great cheer. The hugs and kisses were abundant at the gates, and pressing a powder puff wrapped in brown paper into Ada’s hand, Connie said, ‘Don’t open it till tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Con. Here’s yours. It’s not much but I had to save up for the housekeeping to give Wally’s mum.’
Connie took the small square parcel, also wrapped in brown paper. They embraced then went their separate ways. Despite the cold she had a warm glow inside her. Instead of catching a bus, which she had taken to doing lately, she decided to walk home and breathe in the air. There were no brightly lit windows to look into or displays of festivities and the gaping holes where houses had once stood were a constant reminder of the Blitz. Even so, it was almost Christmas!
Connie was deep in thought about what she was going to wear tomorrow when she noticed the footsteps. They seemed to be keeping in time with her strides. She told herself not to be silly, that she was a bit squiffy on Len’s V P. But as she turned the corner, a figure drew up beside her. The man raised his hat politely. ‘Tucker is my name, dear. Gilbert H. Tucker. Got time for a quick word, have you?’
Connie stepped back. ‘Why are you following me?’
‘I’m looking for information, that’s all.’
‘Such as?’ Connie was frightened but she wasn’t going to show it.
‘It’s about a young girl, just turned twenty, small, dark, not bad looking. Her name was Rita. Ring any bells?’
‘No. What makes you think I know her?’
‘This might jog your memory.’ He reached inside his raincoat, took out a wallet and slid a crumpled photograph from inside. ‘Course, she’s a few years younger there. It was took before the war.’
Connie was forced to look at the photograph. It was almost dark, but there was light enough from the moon to see. The young girl had long, dark hair framing her face and a fringe cut straight across her forehead. Her heart raced as she saw the wide, sad eyes.
‘Ring any bells?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
He replaced the photograph in his wallet. ‘She was my daughter.’
‘Your daughter?’ Connie repeated slowly.
‘Surprise you does it? What did she tell you about me? Well, you don’t want to believe all you hear. My Rita didn’t have no call to boast. She weren’t married, you know. Had the kid and never knew who the father was. Matter of fact, I could tell you a thing or two ’bout her that’d make your hair curl.’
‘I don’t want to know.’ Connie backed away. ‘Please stop following me.’
He gripped her arm. ‘I just want the answers to a few questions.’
‘Let go of me.’
‘Just as soon as you tell me what Rita told you before she died. I know it was you that found her and the kid. A woman in Haverick Street told me. Said a bloke had been round asking questions and left his address and yours.’
‘If the woman told you all that then you should know that the girl I found was in no condition to speak.’
‘She must have said something.’
Connie pulled her arm away. ‘Why don’t you go to the police if you want to find out more? Look, t
here’s a constable on his bike.’
He let her go as the policeman cycled towards them. ‘No time to talk now,’ he muttered. ‘But I’ll be back again.’
Connie watched him hurry off as the policeman cycled past. Was he really the dead girl’s father and therefore Lucky’s grandad? He had shown no sign of grief that his daughter was dead. If he wanted information, why hadn’t he just knocked on her door and asked her?
All the way home, she thought about Gilbert Tucker. Would he follow her again. What should she do?
Connie turned into Kettle Street, looking behind her as she did so. No one was in sight. People were preparing for the holiday, making certain their blackout precautions were securely in place. She felt a little shiver go through her. Who could she confide in?
Christmas Day was going to be celebrated despite the Blitz. Billy had brought home a chicken and no one asked where from. Connie and her mother were plucking the fowl between them and preparing a Christmas pudding so small it needed twice as much as the normal amount of custard.
‘We’ll eat at one o’clock prompt,’ Olive shouted as Billy, Kevin and Ebbie went down to Lofty’s for a drink. ‘So don’t be late, or else.’
‘On the dot,’ they all chorused.
‘Let’s set the table,’ Olive decided as Connie lifted Lucky from his cart in the kitchen and took him to the front room. On her way past the window she glanced out. The street seemed to be empty. Placing Lucky in the armchair, she wedged him with cushions and kissed his head. His hair was soft and honey coloured, with a bald patch at the back.
Connie sighed heavily. He was such a lovely child. Could that unpleasant man really be his grandfather? Connie began to set the table, her eyes darting to the window.
The men arrived back and were all smiles as the food was piled in front of them; carrots, potatoes and gravy overwhelming the meat. Lucky sat in his cart and was fed, grinding his two tiny teeth in the process.
The presents were distributed after the King’s Speech. Connie was delighted with hers. Two scented tablets of soap from Ada, a cardigan in pale grey wool knitted by her mother, a blouse from Nan that looked almost new with a Peter Pan collar, and chocolates from her brothers. She was touched by the unexpected gift from the family for Lucky. A bonnet knitted in blue wool with matching bootees and mittens and a red pig money box into which everyone had dropped their pennies.
By six o’clock the skies were still clear. Everyone was hoping they had escaped a raid. ‘Billy, I want to talk to you,’ Connie whispered as they helped Olive with tea. ‘Come upstairs when I put Lucky to bed.’
Later, Connie told him all that had happened, from the first day she’d seen the stranger to last night. ‘He claims he’s Lucky’s grandfather,’ she ended worriedly. ‘And wanted to know what the girl – who he said was his daughter – had told me before she died.’
‘That’s a funny thing to say,’ Billy agreed.
‘It was a very strange meeting.’
‘Do you think he’ll try it on again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s a lot of funny people about. He might be trying his luck for some reason.’
Connie nodded slowly. ‘He gave me the creeps.’
Billy put his arm around her shoulders. ‘If he shows up again, tell me. I’ll have a word in his ear. Now, come on downstairs and stop worrying. It’s Christmas after all.’
It was just before eight when there was a loud knock. ‘I’ll get it!’ Connie ran to the front door.
‘Merry Christmas!’ Vic looked so handsome he took her breath away. He was wearing a dark-coloured jacket with wide lapels and large patch pockets. His flannel trousers had turn-ups and the sporty green wool sweater with a V-neck revealed the glimmer of a crisp, cream-coloured shirt. She had waited all day to see him and was beginning to think he wasn’t coming.
‘Merry Christmas.’ She gave a little shiver as he bent to kiss her.
He lifted Gran’s shopping basket. ‘Christmas comes but once a year and this year is very special.’
‘Don’t keep Vic on the doorstep,’ Olive called from the front room. ‘It’s still the blackout even though it’s Christmas.’
Vic spoke softly as she closed the door. ‘I missed you today.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I took Gran over to Pat’s for dinner. They all send their love. Asked us to go over tonight, but I said I was coming here.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Course not. I’m with you, and that’s all that matters. Added to which, it looks like Jerry is taking the night off too.’
The room was warm and inviting as they walked in. There was no Christmas tree, but the paper decorations were strung up and the fire was blazing. There was a smell of baked apples that Olive had prepared for supper.
‘Merry Christmas, son.’ Ebbie rose from his armchair to shake Vic’s hand.
Olive looked up from her place on the couch. ‘It’s nice to see you, dear.’ She patted the spot beside her. ‘Come and warm yourself. Constance will make the tea. I was hoping the boys would be here too, but they’ve both gone out seeing as there doesn’t seem to be a raid.’
Connie prepared the tray in record time. When she returned, the presents from Gran’s basket had been distributed. Her mother was wearing a smooth paisley scarf around her neck and her father was investigating a tool set.
‘Yours are on the table, dear,’ Olive said as she helped everyone to tea.
Connie sat by the fire and opened the tin of Saturday Assortment that Gran had sent her. Next was Pat and Laurie’s gift, a pair of earrings that looked like tiny glittering half moons. Vic’s present was a pair of luxurious silk stockings that had Connie blushing.
‘They’re beautiful!’
He lifted a parcel from the table and handed it carefully to her. ‘I made it myself. For the lad.’
Connie unwrapped the brown paper carefully. Everyone gasped as a beautiful red and blue wooden train appeared with a big black shiny funnel. ‘Did you really make it yourself?’
‘Will it do?’
‘I’ve never seen such a lovely toy.’
‘Look, there’s even a cord to pull it with,’ Ebbie noted.
Olive took the train and inspected it. After a moment, she looked up. ‘It reminds me of when the boys were young. They had wooden soldiers like this, painted in lovely colours, and Kevin and Billy used to spend hours playing with them, building imaginary castles and forts . . . do you remember, Ebbie?’ She glanced at her husband. ‘It seemed such a long time ago . . . until tonight . . . and all those memories have come flooding back . . .’ She gave a little sniff. ‘You know, Vic, I was so worried over Constance. She’s an independent young woman and we don’t always see eye to eye. But I have to admit –’ Olive’s voice wobbled – ‘she’s looked after that baby as if it was her own. The fact that you have come into her life and you seem to like the little lad too – well, it’s a blessing, it really is.’
Ebbie cleared his throat loudly. ‘Anyone for a tipple?’
‘A beer would do fine,’ Vic accepted quickly.
‘Righto.’ Ebbie nodded. ‘And a nice port and lemon for the girls.’
Connie glanced at Vic, who gave her a big grin. She felt a warm glow of contentment inside her. Even that awful man Gilbert Tucker wasn’t going to spoil her perfect Christmas night.
Chapter Nine
It was the 29th of December and Billy’s fifteenth birthday. Although the Luftwaffe had returned on the 27th, the following evening the skies were silent and everyone hoped this evening would be the same. With the presents opened, Ebbie was planning to take his sons for a beer, even though they couldn’t officially drink in a pub. But it was an unwritten rule that landlords turned a blind eye in wartime.
They were preparing to leave when the siren wailed. Connie looked at her mother, who closed her eyes and sighed. Kevin made a hasty escape to be with Sylvie and Ebbie disappeared to collect the bedding for the public shelter.
‘I’m sorry, Billy,’ Olive said as she hurriedly put on her coat. ‘You’ll have to celebrate another day.’
Connie could see he was disappointed. Once more the family separated and Connie hurried with Lucky into the yard, expecting her brother to follow.
‘Con, would you mind if I went over to a pal’s?’ he said as he stood at the door of the Anderson. ‘It is me birthday after all.’
Connie had grown to rely on Billy’s company and she didn’t want to be on her own. ‘You will come back soon, won’t you?’
‘Course I will. I’ll light the lamp then shut you in tight, okay?’
Connie nodded. ‘Billy?’
‘What?’
‘Happy birthday.’ She gave him a big smile.
‘Thanks, Con.’
The door of the shelter closed. She sat on the bench and cuddled Lucky tightly. Perhaps Vic would call by again? The explosions grew nearer. They sounded louder tonight but she was by herself and listening for every bump. The minutes passed by and Billy didn’t return. The shelter shook and trembled as though it was made of paper. There were no lulls in the bombing, just a continual pounding of the earth. Suddenly a bang so loud erupted close by that her ears popped; the Tilley lamp fell over and a gust of wind blew open the door. Lucky was torn from her arms by an invisible force. A second later there was total darkness.
‘Drink this,’ a voice was urging her. ‘Small sips, sweetheart.’
She swallowed the brandy and coughed. ‘Where am I? What happened? Where’s Lucky?’
Vic replaced the hip flask in his pocket. ‘He’s safe in the house. Now, sit up slowly, I want to check you’re all right.’
‘Is Lucky hurt? Is he crying?’
‘No, he’s not hurt at all. The cart was in one piece so I took him in and laid him in it.’ Vic grasped her shoulders. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’
