Daughters of the Mersey

by Anne Baker

  In January the air raids grew worse and Milo wanted, above everything else, to be fit and well again. He wanted to return to army life and catch up with his friends in the unit. He hoped that in another month when he next went back to the hospital to be assessed, he’d be passed fit to return to active service.

  In the meantime, he busied himself about the house doing some of the cooking. He and Mum had looked round the garden and they’d decided that the small shed built on to the end of the house for storing bikes and prams could easily be turned into a henhouse. He fixed an old broom handle across it to make a perch and found a couple of wooden boxes for them to lay their eggs in. The difficult part was how to fence off a few yards of garden to make an outside pen for them. He asked in the two hardware shops if they had chicken wire but the answer was no.

  He managed to get some diesel and one day when it wasn’t too cold he took Oswald Hemmings out fishing in the Vera May. They brought back a good catch of dabs, small flat fish which were a bit bony but the flesh was delicious. He and Pa feasted on them late at night when he got home. Mum was already asleep.

  The next morning he took some of the remaining dabs round to Beechwood and gave them to Colleen Greenway who was delighted. Alison, one of Pat’s older sisters, happened to be at home that day and was called down from upstairs to admire them. He hadn’t seen Alison for years and rather liked the look of her.

  He told them about his plans to keep hens to provide them with eggs, and the need to build a pen for them.

  ‘There’s a trellis in our garden you could take,’ Mrs Greenway said. ‘It used to cut off our vegetable patch from the lawn near the house. Last year the vegetable patch was put down to potatoes and carrots and part of the lawn dug up to grow salad vegetables.’

  Alison took him out to the back garden to show him. ‘Once this trellis supported a prolific honeysuckle hedge,’ she said, ‘but the hedge was getting old.’

  ‘It was planted twenty-five years ago,’ her mother called from the back door, ‘and it was dying off so we dug it up.’

  ‘We had to renew the trellis a few years earlier so you might get a bit more use from it.’

  Milo was enthusiastic. ‘It’s sound, in very good condition and just what I need. If you can spare it I’d be very grateful.’

  Alison helped him dismantle it there and then, and they balanced it on a wheelbarrow and made several trips to take it round to Mersey Reach.

  He’d taken Floris Jenkins to the pictures several times and knew she and Henry would both be at work that afternoon, so he left another parcel of dabs at their back door and put a note through the front to tell them the fish were there. He then called to see his mother at the shop and asked for advice on how to make a fish pie for supper tonight.

  It was lunchtime when he got home and he and Pa ate two dabs each with bread and margarine and spent some of the afternoon making the last of the fish into a fish pie. The next morning, he was surprised when Pa offered to come out and help him erect the trellis to make the hen pen.

  ‘We can use the garden wall for one side,’ Milo said, ‘and then there’ll be enough trellis to do the job.’

  ‘Is six feet high enough? Can hens fly?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll write to Amy and get her to find out.’

  ‘I reckon you’ll still need wire netting,’ his father pointed out. ‘The holes in the trellis are big enough for chicks to escape through. You could plant a hedge on the outside but it would take time to grow.’

  Milo was happy enough pottering round doing things to fill his day and he thought it helped him both feel better and recover from his injuries. Floris came round the following evening to thank him for the fish and happened to mention that her father was absolutely exhausted because he was out fire-watching every time there was an air raid and was also putting in a fifty-hour working week at Camell Laird’s.

  ‘I could fire-watch,’ Milo said. ‘I feel I ought to be doing something to help instead of enjoying this endless leisure.’

  ‘You’re on sick leave.’ Floris smiled. ‘You should concentrate on getting well.’

  But he went home with Floris and spoke to her father about fire-watching. ‘Take him round to see Alfred Beale,’ he told his daughter. ‘He organises the fire-watching rota and lives at the end of our road.’

  ‘We’re glad of any help we can get,’ Mr Beale assured Milo. ‘We’re all tired out because the moon is full and we’re having a spell of good clear nights and Jerry is making the most of them.’

  At that moment, the ominous sound they knew so well rose and fell, wailing out its warning.

  ‘Nine fifteen, they’re early tonight.’ Alfred Beale rose wearily to his feet. ‘Come on, lad. If you’re willing, I’ll show you what we’ll need you to do and you can tell me when the all-clear sounds whether you’ll do a regular stint.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to.’ Milo gulped.

  ‘Do you need to let your family know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Yes. Should I wear warmer clothes? I could run home.’

  ‘No time for that, use my phone and I’ll find you a warm coat. You run home, Floris, and tell your dad to take a night off and try to get some sleep in the Anderson. I’ll show Milo what’s needed and he can take his place.’

  Milo heard his father pick up the phone at home. ‘I’m going to learn about fire-watching, Pa,’ he told him. ‘Tell Mum I won’t be home till this raid is over and possibly not then. Tell her she’s not to worry.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  STEVE SLID THE PHONE back on its rest, feeling shocked. He was ashamed that he’d made no effort to do what his son had done. He’d sat back and let everybody else fight this war to keep him safe. He’d felt it was his right, he’d done his bit. But Miles had already done his bit too and he was ready to do more.

  Milo came home at breakfast time covered with thick grey dust. He paused at the back door to shake it off the cap and coat he’d borrowed from Alfred Beale. ‘This must be the dust of ages,’ he said. ‘Everything near a bombed building is coated with it.’

  Steve was stirring the porridge pan on the stove. ‘They say it’s old plaster and brick dust.’ He’d read about it in the newspapers.

  ‘It smells horrible, stinks, and gets into everything.’ Milo slumped on to a chair at the kitchen table, his face greyish white with fatigue.

  ‘Should you be doing this?’ Leonie asked, sliding a cup of tea in front of him. ‘You’re tired out.’

  ‘I’m dog tired, but yes, I should.’

  His father asked, ‘You’ve been fire-watching?’

  ‘Yes, but once the all-clear sounded, that wasn’t needed, so I followed Alfred Beale who went to help the civil defence workers and ARP wardens. It wasn’t all over for them.’

  ‘What did you have to do?’

  ‘Dig into the wreckage for bodies.’

  ‘What? What had happened?’

  ‘It was behind the market. When the bombs started dropping last night, a double-decker bus stopped in front of the public shelter there, and the passengers all ran inside. Half an hour later, it got a direct hit.’

  ‘Were they killed?’ Leonie asked horrified. ‘How many?’

  ‘They had fourteen bodies out when I left, but they’re still digging. They sent me home, said I was past it but everybody else was exhausted too. I can go to bed now, Mum, most them have to turn round and do a day’s work.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘I must wash my hands and face before I eat.’ Milo got shakily to his feet and went off towards the bathroom.

  When he came back, Steve said, ‘I want you to take me with you next time you go fire-watching.’

  He saw the surprise on their faces as they both turned to look at him. ‘I think it’s about time I gave a hand,’ he said. ‘In a war like this, it’s all hands to the pump, isn’t it?’

  Since the New Year, Amy had been phoning her mother every Friday afternoon on the way home from school. Mum was always at the s
hop at that time of day and always had plenty of news about the family. Quite often she rang Pat too, she was always bubbling with things to tell her.

  She wished Pat could sometimes phone her. If occasionally Amy didn’t ring, it was because it cost twopence to make a call and that would buy her a bar of chocolate or some sweets in town the next day. There was one shopkeeper who saved sweets under the counter for her.

  She also liked to buy The Girls’ Crystal. When June had been her age, she’d loved a magazine called The Schoolgirl and bought it every week and then she bound them together to make two huge volumes. She’d handed them on to Amy, and once she’d started to read those she’d decided she’d grown out of Enid Blyton’s Sunny Stories.

  In The Schoolgirl most of the stories were written by Frank Richards, a prolific writer of stories set in both boys’ and girls’ boarding schools. Amy knew there was no chance of her going to a school like that but she was sure she would have enjoyed it, it sounded as though the girls had great fun.

  The Schoolgirl was no longer being published and The Girls’ Crystal was the nearest Amy could buy to that, but paper shortages meant it was miserably thin and the main picture covered only half the front page to make room for some of the story. The stories were no longer by Frank Richards and Amy thought them not nearly so good.

  Auntie Bessie had only a large Welsh bible and a cookery book, but when her friends and relatives heard that Amy liked to read, they brought her their books and allowed her to keep them for as long as she needed. That way she came by many of the classics like Alice in Wonderland and The Wind in the Willows.

  At school, reading practice was occasionally undertaken as a group and everybody dreaded it. As book monitor, Amy handed out the reading books. The pupils lined up against the wall and each had to read aloud in turn a paragraph from the same story, while the rest followed with their fingers on the written page. Amy had never got over her fear of Mrs Roberts and always did what was expected of her as quickly and as well as she could, hoping to avoid being noticed.

  Some of her fellow pupils found reading aloud hard and she knew that having Mrs Roberts’ full attention made them very uncomfortable. It was a long drawn out procedure and Mrs Roberts’ impatience seemed to build up, making even adequate readers quake in their shoes.

  ‘Come along, Gwilym. You’re mumbling. Open your mouth when you read or I can’t hear. Now sound out the first letter. Yes, it is F. Do concentrate. You could read this word at the beginning of term with no trouble.’

  Amy felt for him as he stumbled and mumbled and hoped against hope that when her turn came she wouldn’t be made to feel stupid by Mrs Roberts. But she knew what it was to be tongue-tied in these circumstances and she was afraid her brain would be addled. Well before it was her turn to read she counted out the paragraphs to find which one would be hers. Closing her mind against the struggling efforts of others, she read it through carefully. Worryingly, it had only three lines. Would Mrs Roberts want her to read more? Most of the paragraphs were twice that length.

  To be on the safe side, she went through the next paragraph too, to make sure she could read the whole thing smoothly.

  Amy’s heart was thudding when her turn came. She held her book well away from her and spoke up as clearly as she could. She managed her first three lines without a fault, and then because she knew she could, she swept straight into the next paragraph.

  ‘Stop!’ Mrs Roberts called impatiently. ‘Stop, that’s enough.’ Thankfully Amy did, she’d come through unscathed.

  Leonie walked home from her shop one evening to find both Steve and Milo in the kitchen and the meal well in hand. She knew as soon as she went in that they had good news to impart.

  ‘It’s Amy,’ Milo said. ‘Her teacher has written to us.’

  ‘What has she done?’

  Steve smiled. ‘It seems she’s brighter than our other two.’ He pushed the opened letter across the table to Leonie. It was addressed to both her and Steve.

  Amy’s reading ability is above average for her age, and I believe she shows grammar school capability. If you are agreeable, please complete the enclosed form and I will enter her for the scholarship examination and prepare her for it.

  Should she be successful, she would be awarded a grammar school place next September.

  ‘That’s marvellous.’ Leonie was delighted. ‘I was afraid changing schools and leaving home would upset her schoolwork.’

  ‘Little Amy’s all there,’ Milo said, ‘as bright as a button.’

  ‘Yes.’ Steve beamed at her. ‘It’s a good idea, it means we won’t have to pay school fees for her.’

  Soon after that, Amy was working at the sums the whole class had been set when Mrs Roberts summoned her to her desk. She jerked to her feet, shocked to be singled out. A summons to come forward and stand in front of Mrs Roberts was dreaded by them all. It usually meant a punishment.

  ‘Amy,’ she said. ‘Recently I wrote to your parents saying I thought you might be capable of passing the scholarship exam and going to the grammar school. I’ve received a reply from your mother saying she is pleased and very much wants you to try.’

  Amy could feel her cheeks burning. She didn’t want any more changes, she was getting used to this school now.

  ‘I shall set homework for you to do every night to prepare you for this examination. It means you’ll have to work hard. Are you willing to do this?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Roberts.’ If Mum wanted it, what else could she say? She was about to turn away.

  ‘Right, well, you might as well start straight away.’ Two notebooks were pushed in front of her. ‘These are your homework books. One is for arithmetic and the other for English. Write your name on them, and this is the work I want you to do tonight.’ Two examination papers from previous years were put on top. ‘Do questions four, five, and six on the arithmetic paper and questions one and three on the English.’

  Amy stared at them in shock. ‘Yes, Mrs Roberts.’

  ‘I’ll go through your answers with you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Roberts. Thank you.’

  Amy felt there was no end to the schoolwork she was given and found she had very little time to herself in the evenings after that.

  Ralph was a good letter writer and June received letters from him regularly. They were love letters and she thought them quite romantic. He told her how much she meant to him and how much he longed for traditional married life. ‘I stayed a bachelor for far too long,’ he wrote. ‘I didn’t realise what I was missing.’

  He also wrote about the plans he was making for the end of the war. They’d buy a house and set up home together; they’d have children and he wanted nothing more than to go back to his job in the bank and be a good husband and father.

  The nurses collected their letters from behind webbing on a board in the corridor outside the dining room. Sometimes the post was sorted into alphabetical order and available by the mid-morning coffee break, but often June had to wait until she went into dinner – they had their main meal in the middle of the day. She had developed the habit of checking every time she passed the board and her air letters were easy to pick out. Today, on her way into first dinner, she pulled out another letter.

  She had no time to read it and anyway Ralph’s letters were something to savour and dream over. She pushed it into her pocket with a warm feeling that all was well in her world. Dinner was bangers and mash with onion gravy and she laughed with Mary O’Leary about a disaster she’d had in the sluice that morning.

  As she was leaving the dining room, her eye scanned the letters board and she noticed an orange envelope where her letters were usually displayed. She pulled it out and was shocked to find it was a telegram addressed to her. She knew what this could mean and could hardly breathe as she ripped it open.

  We regret to inform you that Lieutenant Ralph Harvey has been killed in action. Please accept our sincere condolences.

  June felt her head swimming in disbelief and everythin
g was going black.

  ‘June, what’s the matter?’ She felt Doreen Brown catch at her and try to hold her.

  When she came round she was lying on a bed in the nurses’ sick bay and the full horror of what had happened hit her. She couldn’t stop the tears coursing down her face and in her agony she showed Sister Jackson the telegram and the wedding ring she wore round her neck. She admitted that she’d secretly married Ralph. He was her husband. Sister was sympathetic but asked one of the doctors to prescribe a sedative and June slept for most of the afternoon.

  She felt no better when she woke up. Matron came to see her and told her she should never have married secretly but she gave her two days off duty for this week. June got up and went back to the nurses’ home where she washed her face and changed out of her uniform. She caught the bus and went to her mother’s shop. She knew she’d be in time to catch both her and Elaine before they went home.

  She put her arms round Elaine and told her about her brother, and they wept together. Mum was both sympathetic and supportive but for June it didn’t seem to help. If Ralph was dead nothing could help. Her future couldn’t be as she’d expected, everything was ruined forever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  JUNE KNEW HER FAMILY and friends had done their best to comfort her but she felt bereft. Nothing could possibly help her now. She couldn’t understand what had caused Ralph’s death when he’d told her he was in a safer place than she was. It had come with savage suddenness.

  She went back on duty when her two days’ leave was up, determined not to weep any more. She almost broke down when she found her friends offering words of sympathy and was only able to keep going by keeping her mind set on the next task she had to do. She couldn’t sleep and hardly knew what day it was, she felt like a zombie.