by Daisy Styles
‘Dunno,’ he whispered back. ‘But I’m not complaining!’
It was late the following day when Kit arrived back in Pendleton. Frozen to the bone and utterly exhausted, she staggered up the steep hill to the Phoenix, where the first thing she saw was Edna’s blue van parked up in the dispatch yard. Hurrying towards it, she called, ‘Edna! Edna!’
‘For God’s sake,’ cried Edna when she saw Kit’s ashen face, ‘get inside.’ She pulled Kit into the van and closed the back doors so they could talk in private. ‘What happened?’ she asked as she shoved a mug of hot tea into Kit’s hands and lit up a cigarette for her.
Tired beyond words, Kit could barely speak, but after a few sips of tea and several drags on her cigarette she said flatly, ‘Mi da’s handed Billy over to the convent; he’s up for adoption.’
Edna could scarcely believe she was hearing right. ‘That can’t even be legal!’
‘Billy’s with the Sisters of Mercy in Dublin, who’re arranging the adoption,’ Kit told her.
Abandoning the tea and cigarette, Kit put her head in her hands and howled like an animal in pain. Edna soothed and petted her until eventually Kit’s breathing steadied. Wiping away tears, which smeared her already dirty face, Kit told Edna what Sister Clare had advised.
‘She told me to find a top-notch lawyer who might be able to find a …’ Kit paused to remember the exact word. ‘LOOPHOLE.’
Edna’s face visibly brightened. ‘A legal loophole – sounds like good advice to me. Look, sweetheart, leave that to me: that’s one thing I can help you with, for sure.’
Kit nodded weakly as exhaustion claimed her.
‘Right now you need to get some sleep,’ Edna urged. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you home.’
After giving Edna a quick goodnight kiss, Kit crept into the dark digs, where Gladys and Violet were already fast asleep in their rooms. Slipping into bed, she covered herself with a blanket, then fell into a deep sleep in which she dreamt of Billy’s gentle breathing as she held him close for those precious few last minutes in the convent nursery.
Kit woke to the sound of Violet’s gentle voice. ‘Fancy a cuppa, sweetheart?’
Kit nodded as she staggered wearily out of bed and followed Violet into the warm sitting room, where Gladys was busily brewing up.
‘How’s your mother?’ she immediately asked.
Kit shook her head. ‘Dying, but I had to leave; Mr Featherstone allowed me only three days off.’
Kit hated telling her dearest friends only half the truth. She was afraid that once she started she’d never stop, and after such an outpouring she would be incapable of any sensible action. Right now her priority was to concentrate on the practical course of action that lay before her. Her secret could be revealed on a later day when she was certain that Billy would be returned to her.
‘You must be worried sick,’ Gladys commiserated as she handed Kit a steaming hot mug of tea.
Tears flooded Kit’s eyes. With all the trauma surrounding Billy, she’d hardly had time to say goodbye to her mother, whom she’d last seen lying in bed, coughing up blood as she gasped for every breath.
‘So you won’t be with her when she –’ Violet’s voice faltered.
‘No, I won’t be with her at the end,’ Kit said, finishing the sentence for her miserably.
Violet’s sky-blue eyes filled up too. ‘I wasn’t with my mum at the end either,’ she murmured.
Violet bitterly recalled how she’d decided not to visit her mother on her deathbed; the sight of her beloved daughter with two black eyes would be the last thing her mother would have wanted to see before she departed this world. So heartbroken Violet had no choice but to leave her mother to die alone.
The end of June brought more bad news from the war front: Rommel had captured Tobruk and was heading straight for Cairo.
‘The lads in the Lancashire Fusiliers are almost certain to be sent overseas to North Africa’ Maggie informed her friends. ‘Little Elsie on the cordite line told us her fiancé, Tommy, who’s in the Fusiliers, would be posted overseas with his battalion to head off the bloody Germans.’
‘God help ’em in that heat,’ sighed Gladys. ‘North Africa must be as hot as hell!’
‘Especially when you’ve grown up in Lancashire, where there are sixteen kinds of rain,’ joked Nora.
‘You should try living in Ireland,’ Kit remarked. ‘The grass is not emerald-green for lack of rain, believe you me.’
Normal life resumed. As shifts came and went, thousands of bombs were assembled, dispatched and flown out to war zones urgently in need of fresh ordnance. Back at home, rationing grew harder by the day.
‘If I have to face another spam fritter I think I’ll scream,’ Violet moaned one lunchtime when the menu was spam, spam and even more spam.
‘Better get used to it,’ stoical Myrtle commented. ‘It’ll get a lot worse before it gets any better.’
‘Now that clothes are rationed we’ll never have enough coupons for those glamorous satin ball gowns that Maggie was so looking forward to,’ Nora glumly pointed out. ‘We’ll be playing in the band in our Bomb Girls’ overalls until the end of the war.’
‘I hate Hitler!’ Maggie seethed.
‘Don’t we all?’ sighed Violet.
Unknown to any of their friends, Kit and Edna had whispered discussions most evenings in the dispatch yard. In between frying chips and serving eager customers, Edna told Kit what she’d discovered in Bury’s lending library.
‘You’ll be pleased to hear there are a few lawyers in Manchester who specialize in adoption law,’ she said as she flicked through her little note pad. ‘An Ian McIvor seems to be the top man, so I suggest you get in touch with him.’
‘Oh, Edna,’ Kit whispered as she clutched her friend’s hand. ‘Thanks so much for helping me, I wouldn’t have known where to start.’
‘When in doubt, go to the library,’ Edna chuckled.
With Ian McIvor’s phone number written on a scrap of paper in her pocket, Kit suddenly felt elated. ‘I’ll ask Mr Featherstone if I can phone from his office,’ she said with a new confidence in her voice.
Edna looked alarmed. ‘Don’t do that! His secretary’s the biggest gossip in Pendleton. Use a public phone box: there’re a few in town. Or phone from my shop.’
‘It’s too late to phone now but I’ll come to the shop first thing in the morning,’ Kit said, impatient to get things started. ‘The sooner this clever Mr McIvor is on the case, the better.’ She realized that she was placing all her hopes in a man she’d never even met.
Feeling like at least she’d got a plan, Kit hurried home but stopped in her tracks as music came floating out of the cowshed’s open windows. She immediately recognized the sound of Violet’s lilting clarinet and Glad’s bold swooping alto sax. Despite her gnawing pain and constant worry, she was happy to be back with her friends, who quickly laid down their instruments and warmly welcomed Kit. As Gladys popped the little kettle on the wood-burning stove, Violet offered Kit a Woodbine and a mug of hot tea.
‘Well, we’ve got news that might cheer you up,’ she announced. ‘We’ve just heard about a competition across the North for the best new dance band.’
Flushed with excitement, Violet took up the story. ‘It kicks off in Bolton and ends with the winning band appearing with no less than Joe Loss at the Savoy in London!’ she cried.
With her head full of information about adoption law and Mr McIvor in Manchester, Kit was caught off her guard.
‘What?’ she said blankly.
Gladys flapped a piece of paper in front of her face. ‘Each band has to play three pieces to demonstrate their singing and musical skills,’ she babbled. ‘A foxtrot followed by a jive and closing with a waltz.’
Violet smiled at Kit. ‘We thought we could pick the best of three from our very extensive repertoire,’ she joked. ‘We could improve on them, add a few more harmonies and solo pieces. What do you reckon, Kit?’
Feeling like it was the l
ast thing she wanted, Kit simply said, ‘I don’t know.’
Remembering that Kit had a lot on her mind, Gladys quickly said, ‘You’re under a lot of pressure – it’s okay, don’t worry about it.’
Seeing the hope fade from her face and Violet’s too, Kit felt, if possible, even more wretched. Her misery was now affecting her relationship with her friends, who, through no fault of their own, did not know of her secret. Overwhelmed with frustration about how little she could really do for Billy right this moment, she was struck by the thought ‘What the hell!’ The one thing she felt like doing right now was beating the bejesus out of a set of drums!
15. Mr Ian McIvor
The next day, in between finishing her shift and the scheduled band practice, Kit ran down the hill into Pendleton, and in the privacy of Edna’s back room she phoned Ian McIvor’s office.
‘What shall I say?’ she nervously asked Edna.
‘Just ask for an appointment with Mr McIvor. Don’t get pushed around by his secretary; they always think they’re in charge. Why talk to the monkey when you can talk to the organ-grinder?’ Edna joked. ‘Go on, get on with it,’ Edna said as she gave Kit a gentle nudge in the direction of the black Bakelite phone.
Kit took a deep breath, then, thinking only of Billy, she dialled the number. As Edna had predicted, she got through to a very officious secretary who insisted she would personally pass on any messages to Mr McIvor, but Kit steadfastly refused to accept this.
‘I must speak to him myself,’ she insisted in a firm voice that was so out of character it took Edna by surprise.
Eventually the secretary put her through to the lawyer, who, after Kit briefly outlined her case, arranged to see her the next day after she finished her early-morning shift. Thanking Edna, Kit, with her heart racing and her pulse quickening, hurried back up the hill to the Phoenix. AT LAST she was doing something for Billy, something real and practical; she was sick to death of weeping and grieving – now was the time for action. She had the money; all she needed was the right lawyer to make it happen. And, as far as she could tell from Edna’s research, Mr Ian McIvor had all the right credentials!
After a plate of potato hash and boiled beetroot in the works canteen, the girls returned to their digs, where Kit (who yet again hated herself for lying) awkwardly asked a favour of her friends.
‘I’ve got a meeting in Manchester tomorrow – it’s a family matter, with my Irish cousins and I’ve got nothing decent to wear.’
Knowing too well that Kit had only the rags she’d arrived in, Violet and Gladys immediately started to search through their wardrobes for clothes that might fit tiny Kit. Violet found a pale blue tweed suit, which was long on Kit but fitted around her hips and waist. Gladys had a smart cream blouse, which was big across Kit’s shoulders but would do; unfortunately neither of them had any shoes that would fit her small feet.
Cheered by the silky blouse and fashionable skirt, Kit shrugged as she joked, ‘Never mind – hopefully nobody will look at my feet!’
Ian McIvor, in his early thirties, had been rejected by the armed forces because of his poor eyesight, the result of having contracted measles when he was aged three. As a consequence his thoughtful hazel eyes were partly obscured by thick black-rimmed glasses and partly by an unruly mop of brown hair. He’d studied law at Cambridge, but after he’d finished his doctorate, which had been on adoption law, he’d returned North because of his love of mountaineering in the Lake District. Gazing at the scrap of a girl who sat opposite him barely able to speak, McIvor gently started the conversation, which, he could see, caused his trembling client deep distress. However, as things progressed she became more articulate.
‘So are you saying, Miss Murphy, that your father at no point at all consulted with you about his decision to have Billy adopted?’
‘I wouldn’t have known anything about it if my sister, Rosie, hadn’t written and warned me,’ Kit replied.
Making notes, McIvor checked Kit’s date of birth. ‘I see you are twenty-four,’ he said, thinking to himself that she looked much younger. ‘If you’d been under twenty-one your father would have had total authority over you and the child, but, as you’re over twenty-one, you’re legally an independent woman and he therefore has no rights.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Kit said. ‘But the thing is, sir,’ she gulped as she twisted her ragged handkerchief, ‘somehow the paperwork has already been signed, and there’s a rich couple from New York who are keen to adopt my son – for all I know they could be on their way to Dublin as we speak.’
McIvor gave her an understanding smile. ‘I promise you I will move quickly on this, Miss Murphy, but I have to have all the facts before me before I do so.’
‘So what can you actually do?’ Kit asked anxiously.
‘I’ll write to Mother Gabriel to find out exactly what has gone on, and how this paperwork has come to be signed, given that you didn’t sign anything. It may be that I’ll need to travel to meet with your father at some point.’
Kit crossed herself. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he’ll knock your block off!’
McIvor couldn’t help but smile. ‘I can assure you I’m perfectly able to take care of myself. Now,’ he said carefully, ‘there is the question of payment.’
For the first time Kit felt confident. ‘I’m a Bomb Girl at the Phoenix Munitions Factory in Pendleton. I earn good money and I do overtime. I’ve not spent a penny on anything since I arrived in England other than what I’ve sent home for my son, I have money to pay you for your troubles.’
The gentle-hearted lawyer’s heart contracted at the ring of pride in her voice.
‘Excellent. Final question, Miss Murphy: where can I get in touch with you?’
‘You can write to me at the Phoenix factory or my digs,’ she said as she scribbled down the two addresses on a notepad that he handed her. ‘Or you can phone this number: it’s Edna’s chip shop,’ she said, grinning. ‘She’ll get any messages to me.’
As Kit rose, she fumbled for her purse. ‘How much do I owe you for your services today, sir?’ she asked, flustered.
Seeing her blushing, McIvor shook his head. ‘The first meeting is always free,’ he lied.
‘Thank you, thank you very much, sir,’ Kit said, obviously relieved. ‘You promise you’ll act soon?’ she asked again.
Staring into her sweet trusting heart-shaped face dominated by her sad dark brown eyes, McIvor smiled reassuringly. ‘I’ll get on to it right away, Miss Murphy.’
Standing at the window, McIvor watched Kit hurry down the dark cobbled street in her wet flapping shoes. He’d do his very best for her, but he was painfully aware that he couldn’t guarantee that he could save her son from adoption.
After her meeting, Kit dared to feel positive again, despite her intense frustration at how long it all seemed to be taking. But, short of snatching Billy from the convent nursery, which she knew she would never have got away with, Mr McIvor was her only real hope now and she had to trust him.
‘He’ll beat the bejesus out of the lot of them!’ Kit said to herself as she ran down the track that led to the cowshed. She didn’t allow herself to wonder what would happen if clever Mr McIvor couldn’t help her or Billy. She did her best to push aside the nagging thought that Mother Gabriel had the upper hand on the destiny of her child. Would she really send her son to the rich American couple on the back of what her lying, cheating father had said? It seemed impossible to Kit that anybody in their right mind would believe anything a man such as him had said. Feeling like she would go mad with worry if she allowed these thoughts to fester, Kit took deep breaths. Right now, McIvor was her best and in fact her only hope, so she reminded herself to keep her thoughts on him as she set off walking up the lane.
When she opened the door to the cowshed, Kit knew from the tense expressions on Gladys’s and Violet’s faces that something was wrong – by their awkward manner she could tell that they were clearly worried about telling her something. Her first thou
ght was for Billy – had he already been taken? Almost hysterical she cried out, ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Gladys handed her a telegram. ‘It came whilst you were out,’ she said softly.
Hardly daring to breathe, Kit ripped open the envelope and read the note, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘Ma passed away this morning,’ she whispered. Crossing herself, she prayed, ‘May God have mercy on her soul.’
Violet and Gladys guided their grief-stricken friend to the sofa, where they sat on either side of her, holding her hands and wiping away her tears. As Kit’s tears began to subside, they offered her tea and cigarettes.
‘You know what?’ Kit murmured as she inhaled deeply on a Woodbine, ‘I’m glad it’s finally all over for Ma. She’s not in pain any more, not coughing up blood and fighting for her every breath, but, most of all,’ Kit added sadly, ‘at least in heaven she’s safely away from my pig of a father’s slaps and punches.’
Violet quickly averted her eyes from Kit. She’d run away from endless slaps and punches; poor Mrs Murphy had had no such luck.
‘Will you make it to her funeral?’ Gladys asked gently.
Kit shook her head. ‘Featherstone will never agree to giving me leave so soon after my last trip home. I’ll go to mass at St Columba’s in Pendleton,’ Kit told her friends. ‘I can pray for the repose of Ma’s soul just as well there as I could in Ireland.’
‘Possibly better,’ thought Kit, who knew that if she found herself in a church beside her evil father prayers would be the last thing on her mind. She’d be itching to strangle the life out of him for what he’d done to her Billy, herself and her poor long-suffering mother, who in her haste to return to Dublin to see the Sisters of Mercy she hadn’t even said goodbye to. Filled with sadness, Kit remembered how much her mother had tried to shield all four of her children – Rosie, herself and her two younger brothers – from their tyrannical father. It had been a wasted effort; as with all bullies, Murphy always did exactly what he wanted and her mother would have got the brunt of his fury before her children did. Poor, poor soul – what a life she’d suffered. Kit prayed in her heart that Ma would understand why she’d rushed off on her last visit without a backward glance at her or the rest of her family.
