The Bomb Girls' Secrets

by Daisy Styles

  Once outside the office, Ian just about exploded. ‘Odious pompous fool!’ he fumed. ‘Blaming the war for his slowness in responding was a cheap trick.’

  Kit slipped her arm through his. “Who cares?” she said as she admired her glittering bright Claddagh ring. ‘We’re done with O’Rourke!’

  When they stood outside the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy and Ian rang the bell, Kit could hardly believe she was actually there. The moment had finally come: soon she would hold her son in her arms and never be parted from him again. But the minute the pale, nervous young novice opened the door to them, Kit’s euphoria started to fade.

  ‘We’ve an appointment with the Mother Superior,’ Ian said politely.

  ‘I’ll be after telling her,’ the novice muttered before she hurried away.

  When she returned, it was with Mother Gabriel herself.

  ‘Please follow me,’ the Mother Superior murmured.

  At the sound of her heavy voice, Kit’s skin began to creep. This was not the reception she had been expecting.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ she whispered to Ian. He squeezed her hand but she could tell from the strained expression on his face that he was concerned too.

  In the formal sitting room, decorated with lurid images of the Passion of Christ on the Cross, Mother Gabriel didn’t call for tea or even ask them to sit down. Instead, she came straight to the point.

  ‘I’m so very sorry, but the truth is …’ Looking wretched, she finished the sentence. ‘Billy’s not here.’

  As blood pounded through her brain and the room swam before her, Kit cried out, ‘What? NO! Oh, Ian, no!’

  Ian grabbed hold of her before she fell to the floor, ‘Sit, darling! Sit.’

  After lowering her into a hard-backed wooden chair, he turned to the nun. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The child disappeared in the night.’

  Feeling like she would faint or be sick all over the immaculate grey carpet, Kit concentrated hard on taking deep breaths.

  ‘We have our suspicions,’ Mother Gabriel continued. ‘Your father was seen on the premises last night, Miss Murphy.’

  ‘Mi da!’ Kit gasped. ‘What was he doing here?’ she demanded.

  ‘One of the novices spotted him in the kitchen quarters; he’s often visited in the past and she thought no more about it until early this morning, when Sister Clare discovered Billy was missing from his cot.’

  ‘For sure mi da would steal an innocent child if there was money to be had from it,’ Kit said with utter conviction. ‘In God’s name, where’s Billy now?’

  ‘I can tell you for sure he’s not with Mr Murphy, whom I sent the police after,’ Mother Gabriel retorted with anger in her voice. ‘They could get nothing out of the man, but I’m concerned Murphy might have somehow tracked down the American couple who were after adopting Billy.’ Turning to white-faced Kit, she added, ‘Your father flew into a rage when the adoption proceedings were halted by Mr McIvor.’

  Looking white-faced and tense, Ian said, ‘So did the American couple actually arrive in Dublin?’

  ‘Yes, they arrived. I myself told them the adoption was held up due to legal reasons. I instructed Mr O’Rourke to communicate with them after that. I assumed they’d returned home, but who knows what they did,’ Mother Gabriel answered honestly.

  ‘If mi da ever got the chance to talk to them, I swear to God he would have spun them a line in order to get money out of them,’ Kit cried angrily.

  ‘But who would believe a man like him?’ Ian asked sharply.

  ‘God forgive me, I did when he brought Billy to me in the first place. He was very convincing, Mr McIvor,’ Mother Gabriel confessed.

  ‘And he’s kissed the Blarney Stone!’ Kit exclaimed. ‘Him with his gift of the gab. I can just hear him,’ Kit said as she imitated her father’s whingeing voice. ‘My daughter’s under-age, a child herself, the boy is legally mine; he’ll have a better life across the water. I’ll bring him to you – for a feckin’ price!’ Kit stopped suddenly, her dark eyes wide with fear. ‘Mother Gabriel, do you really think my son could be on his way to America?’

  ‘I’ve discussed the possibility of Billy’s being smuggled out of the country,’ Mother Gabriel admitted. ‘The police are already searching the docks.’

  Kit jumped to her feet. ‘I’m going down there right away,’ she said.

  Ian grabbed her arm. ‘Wait darling, we’ll go together.’ He quickly gave the Mother Superior a card. ‘If you have any news, please phone my hotel, the Ship, by the port. The number’s on the back.’

  Mother Gabriel nodded, then handed Kit a small paper bag. ‘These are Billy’s things,’ she murmured.

  With her hands shaking, Kit took the items and breathed in the unmistakable scent of her precious son, her beloved flesh and blood. It was too much to bear after all the hope of the past few days. As her tears now flowed unchecked, Ian steered her gently towards the door.

  ‘We’ll be in touch, Mother Gabriel.’

  Kit had no intention of returning to the hotel, where Ian had booked two single rooms for them.

  ‘I don’t care if the police are already checking the docks – we should check too!’ she insisted.

  Slightly perplexed Ian asked, ‘What exactly are we checking for, sweetheart? We haven’t a clue what the American couple look like, though we could check the ships’ passenger list.’

  ‘You do that, please,’ she said quickly as she set purposefully off in the opposite direction to him. ‘I’m going to look for Billy.’

  Ian shook his head as he watched her go. He didn’t dare hurt her even more by pointing out that anybody intent on abducting a baby and taking him out of the country wouldn’t be pushing him around the docks in a pram. Sighing, he made his way to the bursar’s office, where he ran down the passenger list of the most recent ships that had set sail for New York. There was no sign of a Mr and Mrs Garland, whose names he remembered from the forged adoption papers. Nor was there any sign of a Mr Murphy on the list. He left instructions, as had the police, with the staff to make sure no one going by those names should be allowed to embark on any future sailings, and made his way out into the fresh air, wondering what on earth he could do next.

  Ian walked away from the docks and hurried towards the centre of town; he hoped Kit would head that way after her search of the docks proved fruitless. Despite his fears for Kit’s baby son, Ian couldn’t help but notice how striking it was to walk through a city barely affected by the trials of war. There had been some bombing, but Dublin still remained intact and beautiful. Sitting on a bench in Grafton Street, with no sign of Kit anywhere and at a loss as to what his next course of action should be, Ian put his head in his hands. Heartbroken Kit would insist on scouring every inch of the city, but at some point she would have to go back to Pendleton, possibly without him.

  And they would have to talk to Murphy, even though the police had nothing on him; he HAD to be at the root of this, but Ian seriously doubted that the rash, greedy and erratic Murphy had the cunning and intelligence to execute such a complicated plan. Could Murphy book a passage to New York and smuggle a baby on board ship? He’d be more than likely to drink himself stupid at the bar and forget all about the baby!

  As Ian pondered, he finally spotted Kit on the other side of Grafton Street: she looked tired and dejected. Poor darling, his heart ached for her; it seemed like whatever she did she was fated not to have her child back. As he got to his feet, Ian scolded himself: he had to remain confident that justice would be done and Billy would be returned to his mother.

  When Ian caught up with Kit, he could see the poor girl was almost fainting with nervous exhaustion. Hailing a cab, Ian bundled her inside. ‘You need to rest, my darling,’ he murmured.

  Kit leant her weary head against his shoulder. ‘There was I thinking I was the luckiest woman alive not more than a few hours ago,’ she sighed as tears slid down her pale cheeks.

  Seeing the lost, vacant look in her dark eyes,
Ian said gently, ‘Have a rest and some food. You’re good for nothing like this.’

  Kit was too shattered to do anything but agree.

  ‘We’ll resume our search of the city after you’ve rested,’ he promised. ‘And tomorrow we’ll go to Chapelizod.’

  31. Loose Lips

  A grim-faced Mr Featherstone had called an emergency meeting at the Phoenix. News that the Battle of Stalingrad was under way had brought the workers’ morale to a new low, and it certainly wasn’t helped by what Mr Featherstone had to report.

  ‘I’ve just received stern government warnings concerning the safety of the Phoenix,’ he announced to the packed canteen. ‘The location of munitions factories throughout Britain is top secret, but recently a surprising number of plants have been attacked by German bombers who clearly knew their exact whereabouts.’ He took a heavy breath as he added, ‘It appears that government information is being leaked.’

  As the assembled workers grumbled angrily, Featherstone continued, ‘I hardly need tell you, who are working at the coal face, what damage an enemy attack would cause in a factory like this.’

  ‘We’d all go up like firecrackers,’ one woman cried out.

  ‘And so would a good part of Pendleton if we took a German hit,’ he said sombrely. ‘We already know of the fatal consequences of enemy bombing on the Woolwich Arsenal,’ he reminded the workers, who vividly recalled the savage German bombing of the munitions factory in London’s docklands.

  ‘How does bloody Jerry know our whereabouts – who the ’ell’s blabbing to the enemy?’ an angry young woman demanded.

  ‘It could be spies infiltrating small groups of workers,’ Featherstone answered.

  ‘SPIES!’ a group of women gasped in terror.

  ‘If I hear of anybody blabbing about their work in’t Phoenix, I’ll have their bloody guts for garters,’ Malc threatened.

  Featherstone flapped his hands in an attempt to calm the growing panic. ‘Or it could be casual gossip passed on to the wrong person. I can’t say it often enough.’ He quoted the popular slogan slowly and emphatically: ‘LOOSE LIPS COST LIVES.’

  After he’d given his gloomy warning, Violet and her friends took the opportunity to grab a cigarette and a mug of hot tea.

  ‘Too many careless young girls are showing off about their war work,’ Myrtle remarked crossly. ‘They tell their friends down South they’re building bombs on the Lancashire moors, word goes around, and before you know it the Luftwaffe have located the site. The more munitions factories they destroy, the less weaponry we supply to our brave boys on the front line. It’s a perfect arrangement for the Germans.’

  At a nearby table, Malc lit a cigarette as he flicked through a copy of the Daily Herald. Suddenly he scraped back his chair and leapt to his feet.

  ‘HELL FIRE! Where’s Arthur?’ he cried.

  Startled Violet nodded in the direction of the filling shed. ‘He’s working.’

  Clutching the paper, Malc bolted across the canteen floor.

  ‘What’s up with ’im?’ Maggie asked as she stubbed out her cigarette.

  ‘Probably come up on the horses!’ Nora joked.

  When Malc found Arthur examining trays of packed fuses, he thrust the now crumpled newspaper into his hands. ‘Read that, pal!’

  Arthur read out loud the bold black headline: MIDLANDS BLACK-MARKET RINGLEADER SHOT DEAD.

  ‘It’s HIM!’ Malc exclaimed to wide-eyed Arthur. ‘It’s the swine of a husband that Violet married.’

  ‘It can’t be!’

  ‘Read on,’ Malc urged.

  In a tight tense voice Arthur did as he was told:

  In a massive crack-down Midlands Police arrested several black-market operators in Coventry and Birmingham. Thirty-two-year-old Ronnie Walsh from the Edgwick area of Coventry was shot dead whilst trying to wound a police officer, who tragically died of fatal knife wounds some hours later.

  Arthur looked up and asked sharply, ‘Have you told Vi?’

  Malc shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered quickly.

  Unable to take in the information, Arthur looked at the newspaper and shook his head. ‘We’re supposed to be moving to Scotland on Friday,’ he muttered incredulously.

  Malc grinned as he clapped Arthur warmly on the shoulder. ‘Looks like there’s no reason for you to move now!’ he laughed. ‘Some good news at last.’

  In a daze of disbelief, Arthur took Violet to his garden during their dinner break. On a bench he’d cobbled together from old ammunition crates, he showed her the newspaper article, which she read slowly once … then twice … then she shook her head.

  ‘He won’t be dead, Arthur!’ she angrily declared. ‘I’ve fallen for that before.’

  He looked at her in disbelief. ‘His name’s right here in black and white,’ Arthur insisted as he pointed to the large headlines. ‘Thirty-two-year-old Ronnie Walsh from Edgwick, but originally from the Wood End area of Coventry, was shot dead – it’s him!’ he cried as he grasped her hand and kissed it. ‘He’s dead, Vi!’

  ‘That’s what I thought before,’ she cried bitterly, ‘when I read in the newspaper that all the residents of Sawley Avenue in Wood End were dead.’ She sighed as she fought back tears. ‘Look how wrong I was – all the time he was alive and he found me and nearly killed me.’

  Arthur, agitated beyond words, kept pointing to the headlines. ‘But here it says his name – Ronnie Walsh, written large for all to see.’

  Seeing her stricken face, Arthur dropped the paper and took her in his arms.

  ‘I understand my sweetheart,’ he whispered as he stroked her silky long hair.

  Staring out across the peaceful garden, fragrant with the last of the summer roses and ripe autumn fruit, Violet said quietly, ‘Will you take me to Coventry, Arthur?’

  ‘Of course, my love,’ he answered as he lifted her face to his and kissed her lips.

  When Arthur explained Violet’s sorry predicament, Mr Featherstone looked distinctly fed up.

  ‘I’m not running a holiday camp!’ he snapped. ‘Young Kit Murphy has disappeared off to Ireland and shows no sign of coming back, and now you want a morning off too!’

  ‘I’ll get us both back for our afternoon shift,’ Arthur promised. ‘It’s only Coventry, Mr Featherstone, not t’other side of the moon!’

  The short, dumpy factory manager swayed thoughtfully from his toes to his heels; he had a lot of time for Arthur Leadbetter, a war hero who did a good job safeguarding his munitions workers.

  ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘But you’d better not miss clocking on for your afternoon shift!’ he added grumpily.

  Word of Violet’s news had been passed around amongst her friends, so when Edna drove her blue van into the dispatch yard Gladys was eagerly waiting to talk to her.

  ‘Is it a sin to celebrate somebody’s death?’ she asked guiltily.

  ‘Not in this case, lovie,’ Edna said as she lit up a Player’s. ‘Good riddance to bad bloody rubbish!’

  ‘The more I hear about Ronnie, the more shocked I am that our lovely Violet could ever have been married to scum like him,’ Gladys said.

  ‘No wonder she was scared stiff of Arthur to start with.’

  ‘When Kit gets back from Ireland, it’ll be just like old times,’ Edna said with a smile. ‘You, Violet and Kit back where you belong,’ she chuckled as she added, ‘With a bit of luck you might even get down to some regular rehearsals; you’ll certainly need to before your show in London.’

  For a change Gladys had another more pressing thought than band practices. Dropping her voice to a whisper she muttered, ‘Kit’s in trouble. Malc told me that Featherstone’s really fed up with her exceeding her official leave.’

  ‘There’s got to be a good reason, Glad,’ Edna replied, finding it increasingly hard to keep her young friend’s secret. Why wasn’t the girl back with her boy in hand? ‘Kit would never disobey orders – something serious must have happened over there. I only wish I knew what it might be …’r />
  32. Chapelizod

  After Kit had eaten a little something and briefly rested, she and Ian set about searching the city in a more systematic fashion. Putting the Dublin docklands behind them, they decided to split up at Ha’penny Bridge.

  ‘I’ll cross the River Liffey and walk through the other side of the city, whilst you stay this side of the river,’ Ian suggested.

  Kit looked uncertain.

  ‘We must make the best of the time we’ve got, sweetheart,’ he urged. ‘Meet me back at the hotel by suppertime.’

  Going their separate ways, they peeped into every pram they passed and scrutinized babies carried in their parents’ arms. It was as Ian had imagined: a thankless task. People got annoyed at his interfering questions, whilst others were prepared to gab for hours about their child’s amazing achievements. Passing the Jameson Distillery, Ian felt in desperate need of a drink, but he kept on going until he came to a park, where he sat on a bench to get his breath back.

  ‘Where could the little boy be?’ he thought for well over the hundredth time. Was he suffering? Was he being taken care of? The long-drawn-out legal exchanges couldn’t have helped – they further prolonged Billy’s time in the convent nursery, where they’d all believed that at least he would be safe; but now, thought Ian, he could be anywhere. Yet again Ian had a strong feeling that Murphy alone couldn’t have executed the plan to steal Billy. It would take complicated arrangements to get a child out of the convent, out of the country and across the Atlantic to a new life with a new name and new parents in America, if indeed that was the plan. Sighing, Ian got to his feet and continued along the Liffey, hoping that Kit might be having better luck.

  Outside St Patrick’s Cathedral, Kit wondered whether to turn right or left. If she hadn’t been so beset by fear and worry, she might have enjoyed the beautiful city, but all she could see everywhere she looked were images of Billy’s weeping face. As she stood uncertainly, she spotted Mr O’Rourke crossing the street and walking directly towards her.