by Anne Baker
‘I’m to be secretary to the manager of a luxurious hotel, the Cavanagh. I’m looking forward to it. I think it should be fun.’
In the following weeks, Nick thought Heather was happier, she said she was enjoying her new job. But it left him shorthanded in the office and he couldn’t get a reasonable replacement for her. Heather chatted about making friends with the people she was working with and started going out in the evenings with the girls – to a dancing class, she said, and she was enjoying that too.
He missed her company. He thought he was letting her down. ‘You don’t have to go with other girls,’ he told her. ‘I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.’
He’d expected Heather to take him up on that but she didn’t. ‘I’m quite happy to go with my friends,’ she’d said coldly.
It had occurred to Nick that he could take her out to dinner on Friday nights, together with Tom and Elaine. He thought Heather would be pleased and it would help to repay Elaine for all the times he’d eaten at her house and would also help to stretch the rations. The problem was, the twins would have to remain with Olive and Aunt Bernie until Saturday morning.
He discussed it with Tom and booked a table at Heather’s favourite restaurant but the arrangement didn’t please either her or the twins and they did it only once. The tiffs he had with Heather became more serious rows and they were having them more often. He did his best to keep the peace but it wasn’t always possible.
Nick knew he was failing yet again to achieve a happy marriage. He didn’t want to return to the loneliness of his widowed years. He found himself thinking more often of Leonie and Amy. When in the evenings he was left at home alone, he got out Leonie’s letters and the photographs of Amy and read them all through again, regretting what couldn’t be.
One Saturday evening, Heather had an argument with Elaine as they were preparing dinner and flounced to their bedroom and started to pack. ‘Where are you going?’ Nick asked, alarmed.
‘Do you care?’ she spat between her teeth.
‘Of course I care, you’re my wife.’
‘But you care more about your so-called brother and his wife.’
‘You can’t just walk out on me like this.’
‘Watch me,’ she snapped, tossing a satin nightdress into her case. ‘I’ve had enough of your friends. I don’t like them, especially their kids. I’m going to the Cavanagh. I can share a friend’s room for the night.’ He knew many of the hotel staff lived in.
‘But you’ll come back?’ Nick could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead.
‘When they’ve gone,’ she said and the door slammed behind her as she flounced out. He had a miserable time trying to explain it to Tom and Elaine.
‘We’re coming too often,’ Elaine said sadly. ‘We’re putting on you, taking advantage. I’m sorry.’
‘Blast this war,’ Tom said. ‘It makes life very difficult.’
That weekend, the Cliffords were relying on public transport to get home. This was happening more often and usually they left late on Sunday afternoon. Nick would go with the twins to the railway station to see Tom and Elaine off and then take the children back to Olive and Aunt Bernie. They always invited him to have his evening meal with them – he was, after all, one of the family. That Sunday they were surprised to find Heather wasn’t with him and he had to give the painful explanation over again.
When he got home she was already curled up in bed. ‘Your friends impose on us. Surely you can see there are things I’d rather do at the weekend than run round after them? I can’t do what I want in my own home.’
Nick tried to explain about the bombing raids, about the help and support he’d received from Tom. But after that, she refused to stay at home if Tom and his family were coming. Tom didn’t feel he could continue to come every weekend.
Nick began to fear that Heather might leave him. She was spending more time with people he’d never met than she was with him. He began to lose hope.
One Sunday night Heather returned with an empty case and started to pull her clothes from the wardrobe.
‘I’ve made up my mind to go,’ she said angrily. ‘I’ve had enough of living with you. I’m sick and tired of it. I want a divorce. You know how to go about getting it, don’t you?’
Nick had half expected that she’d ask for a separation, but a divorce, straight off like that? He’d dealt with a few couples seeking divorce and he knew it was deeply shaming and carried a stigma ever after. He was so shocked that it took him a moment to get his words out. ‘You can’t get a divorce on the spur of the moment. It’s difficult and takes a long time. You need to think hard about it.’
‘What d’you think I’ve been doing these last months?’
‘We should talk—’
‘I’m not going to let you talk me out of it. You’re an old has-been. You never want to do anything except read and entertain your boring friends.’
He moistened his lips. ‘Have you got—’
‘Of course I’ve got another man.’ Her beautiful eyes blazed defiance. He’d suspected for some time that she might have. ‘I want to live with him, he’s a lot more fun than you. He’s got more go in him.’
Nick felt as though he’d been kicked. ‘I see.’
‘You’d have to be half blind not to. I haven’t exactly kept him hidden.’
He was sorry and shocked that it was to end like this. Heather was not the woman he’d believed she was.
‘It was a mistake,’ she said. ‘We both know that, don’t we?’
His hands were trembling. He put them in his pockets. ‘There have to be specific grounds on which a divorce can be granted.’
‘I don’t care about the grounds, desertion, adultery – anything. Whatever is easiest. You know more about that sort of thing than I do. I’ll plead guilty to anything short of murder. I just want to be free of you.’
Nick felt he couldn’t argue against that. At this stage he didn’t want to, it would be futile. Nevertheless, his sense of loss was raw and painful. He felt he was touching bottom again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IT WAS THURSDAY, ELAINE HAD worked hard all day and was tired. She heard the phone ring and Tom pick it up while she was in the kitchen making a frugal supper from the leftover scraps from last night. They ate in the kitchen these days where it was warm and also saved the trouble of setting the dining-room table.
When the meal was ready, she went to the living-room door to call Tom in, and found he was still talking on the phone and signalling that he couldn’t come just yet.
‘Who is it?’ she mouthed.
‘Nick.’
Tom would usually tell him they were about to sit down to eat and he’d ring back later. Elaine could see from her husband’s face that they were talking about something important and stayed to listen.
‘If you feel like coming over for a bit of company, don’t hesitate.’
Elaine pulled a face; she and Tom had already agreed that they wanted an early night.
‘No, all right then. Yes, I know you might get caught in an air raid. I’m very sorry to hear this, Nick . . . yes, we’ll come tomorrow for the weekend.’ At last the phone went down.
‘What’s happened?’ Elaine wanted to know.
‘Heather’s left him. She wants a divorce.’
‘Well I’m not surprised, are you? We know things have been a bit sour between them for some time.’
‘She’s told him she admits adultery and desertion. She’s given him names and dates and told him to file for it.’
‘He’ll be upset.’
‘He’s very upset, he was almost in tears. It seems Heather has gone off and left him to get the divorce started.’
‘It should help to speed things up if she’s ready to admit adultery.’
‘It’s going to take a long time, and it will cost him a pretty penny.’
‘Poor old Nick, he doesn’t have much luck with his women.’
‘He was in Liverpool waiting for a
train and sounded very down. That’s why I asked him over. He doesn’t want to handle the divorce himself, he’d been to ask William Lomax, his old boss, to take care of it.’
‘I hope she isn’t going to demand maintenance and all that. Come and eat. Our dinner’s getting cold.’
‘It seems Heather’s got another boyfriend. A younger man, the manager of that hotel where she works.’
‘Oh dear, you always said she was too young for him.’
‘Too young and too flighty. Leonie is more his type.’
‘But she wouldn’t leave Steve.’
‘We’ll have to cheer him up over the weekend. What’s this we’re eating?’
‘I thought I’d fry up these few slices of cold pork with the leftover mashed potato and add a few sprouts. A pity it’s gone cold.’
Tom’s fork prodded it without enthusiasm. ‘What won’t fatten will fill.’
Steve felt more alive than he had done in years. He no longer felt he’d been tossed on the scrap heap. He wore his uniform with pride and was building up a camaraderie with his fellow ARP wardens. He felt useful, part of a group helping the injured and the homeless.
During air raids, on three or four nights each week, he manned the telephones in the ARP post. He answered the calls for help, directed the other wardens to where they were needed and called out the ambulance and fire services as required. It had taken him a time to get on top of the job, but now he always knew where the bombs had fallen and exactly where his fellow wardens were working at any one time. Having only one leg was no disadvantage when it came to doing this.
In order to concentrate on his job he had to ignore the cacophony of noise outside, the explosions, the ambulance sirens and the big guns firing into the sky, and he felt relatively safe surrounded by sandbags in the cellar that was the ARP post. Steve only realised the full horror of what was happening when he listened to the agonised tales the other wardens told and saw the growing devastation, the craters and the rubble in the streets.
December had been a bad month, but they all thought the bombing was easing off in January, and in Birkenhead there were no deaths or serious injuries during February. Although the raids hadn’t stopped, they began to hope that the worst was over. But in the bright moonlit nights of early March they realised how wrong they were. More enemy planes were coming with larger bomb loads. They were creating mayhem. One Saturday night, Steve had just sat down for supper when the air-raid warning sounded.
‘Oh dear,’ Leonie said. ‘Why did I bother to make toad in the hole? Please eat it, both of you, before you go.’
Steve could see Miles shovelling his helping down as fast as he could. He tried to do the same, but as it would probably give him indigestion he slid what was left between two slices of bread to take with him. They were both still eating when they left home.
Steve knew he couldn’t keep up with Miles, ‘Don’t wait for me,’ he told him.
Miles slowed down though he had further to go. ‘No sign of enemy planes yet,’ he said easily.
‘Don’t get too blasé about it.’
They were approaching the ARP post. ‘Bet you’re the first here,’ his son said and he was right. Steve noticed that Miles broke into a jog as he carried on towards the church.
This time, they had a longer than usual warning of the enemy’s approach but it turned out to be the worst night Steve had ever experienced. One minute the wardens were all sitting around waiting and drinking tea, and in the next, bombs seemed to be exploding in the street outside. Steve found himself ducking involuntarily, his heart pounding like an engine. A string of bombs had fallen very close.
The calls for help came almost immediately and never stopped. Before long, he found himself alone in the cellar, all the wardens had been deployed. The only help he could offer then was to call out other services and give advice.
The wardens dribbled back in ones and twos as they dealt with the problems and Steve sent them on to another call. The all-clear sounded about one in the morning and, heaving a sigh of relief, he put on the kettle to make tea. He had a moment then to wonder how Miles had fared and whether Leonie had been afraid to be on her own in a raid like that. He’d been really scared, feeling the next explosion could not miss the ARP post.
He knew his fellow wardens would not be back until they’d freed the last of those trapped by falling masonry, until the last of the injured were despatched to hospital and the last of those made homeless were found temporary shelter. He sat back to wait for them and sipped his tea, feeling he’d earned a rest.
Twenty minutes later, he was horrified to hear the warning wailing out again and within minutes it sounded as though all hell had broken loose. The phone never stopped ringing and people came banging on his door seeking help and first aid for others. Before long, he lost the electricity supply, but that was not uncommon. He lit the hurricane lamp and carried on handing out their store of spades, stretchers and other equipment. The phone went dead half an hour later but still the bombs rained down.
It was almost five o’clock when the all-clear sounded again and Steve was exhausted. He knew by then that just a hundred or so yards away on the border of Rock Ferry, the corner of Jubilee Street and Nelson Street had received a string of bombs early in the night.
The damage was extensive and there had been a considerable number of injuries as well as loss of life. Nelson Street had a row of suburban shops, the sort where the owner lived in the flat above. Jubilee Street jutted at right angles from it and consisted of two facing terraces of moderately sized Victorian parlour houses. All had cellars beneath them that were being used as air-raid shelters.
Steve had redirected exhausted civil defence workers to go there. He’d repeatedly heard ambulance sirens zoning in on it. Now he perfunctorily cleared up the ARP post and went to see the area for himself on his way home.
Milo had spent that same night feeling half paralysed with horror on the top of the church tower. It was a cold, frosty, moonlit night and he could see the parish laid out below almost as clearly as in daylight. Even worse, the Mersey glittered in the silver light, confirming to the Luftwaffe navigators that they were on target.
Above him, Milo could hear the throbbing engines of enemy planes; the sound was quite different from their own. He shivered, it was scary to think of being so close with nothing but a few barrage balloons in between. He could pick out the roof of his own home.
The Germans would be able to see the church and its tower; perhaps they could even see him. Having grown up in this area he didn’t need to consult the street maps laid out below in the bell room.
When the bombs started to rain down, the deafening noise made him jerk with shock, and the huge flashes of light when they hit the ground and exploded half blinded him. He was frightened for the Jenkins family who he knew lived close by. The bombs had fallen close together which increased the danger of a fire. He half crouched behind the stone coping, trying to see in every direction, afraid he might miss a fire if he lifted his gaze from the ground. It was his job to watch for an outbreak and alert the local fire station, so they could reach it as soon as possible. The problem was the night was alive with explosions and flashes of light. He could hear masonry crashing to the ground but could see no fire.
Then, in the Birkenhead docks, he saw flames. A warehouse perhaps? He was reaching for the fixed line that connected him to the fire station when he saw a shower of incendiary bombs descending into the flames. An instant later an incandescent fireball burst into the sky, but he was already talking to a fire officer at the station. The docks were a raging inferno in minutes. Horrified, he watched a barrage balloon catch fire and drift lower over the town. He had to concentrate hard to decide where it would come down, and there were other fires taking hold.
Milo was kept on his toes until the all-clear came at one o’clock. He stayed for ten more minutes, reporting on where the flames appeared brightest and still growing and where fires he’d reported earlier were dying back.
There was still plenty of activity down at ground level. The church hall was open and being used as a temporary shelter for those made homeless. A WVS van was stationed outside providing hot tea and sandwiches for both workers and victims.
Milo warmed his hands on a welcome mug of tea and felt an overpowering sense of relief that it was all over for the time being. He felt very tired, but too tense and strung up to think of sleep. He was worried about his friends, for all he knew, Floris Jenkins could have been alone in the house when those bombs had fallen close by. He set off to see if she needed help, when suddenly the air-raid siren was once again blaring its warning through the streets.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MILO SWORE UNDER HIS BREATH, but there was nothing else he could do but turn and run back to the church. Before he’d reached the top of the tower the bombs were falling again. This time the bombardment went on hour after hour until he was totally exhausted and his eyes were smarting. By the time somebody came to relieve him, there was a pall of black smoke over the docks and it was drifting across the streets.
Milo almost felt his way down the steep stairs and as he stumbled outside, the all-clear went again. The crowd round the church had grown, the church hall was almost full to capacity and there were others busy dealing with the problems.
He felt he couldn’t cope with much more, he needed sleep above everything else, but he decided to deviate from his route home to see if the Jenkins family was all right.
He’d been giving Henry Jenkins’ advice about choosing a job a good deal of thought and he’d decided he would like to work in the drawing office at Laird’s, and if possible learn to be a ship’s architect.
He was relieved to find the Jenkins’ house in Connaught Street in total darkness and so far as he could see in the blackout it was undamaged. He assumed the family had not been harmed though the noise at the top of the road would have kept them awake in their cellar. He could hear it now.
