Chrissie's Children

by Irene Carr

  They found every window in the hotel shattered and the yard where the children had played full of broken glass. They learned that the aircraft had been a lone raider which had sneaked in past the defences. It had dropped one big bomb – a landmine – that had fallen two streets away, flattening two buildings and killing several people.

  Chrissie looked at the damage to the hotel and said, ‘We’ll have to find somewhere inside for the bairns to play, then we’ll clear up this lot.’

  They faced an awesome task, but before they had been at work an hour Peter Robinson walked in at the front door of the hotel. He stared around at the dirt and broken glass and said grimly, ‘I don’t have to ask. A porter told me about it when I got off the train five minutes ago.’

  Chrissie wiped a dirty hand across her brow, smearing it. ‘Peter! By lad, it’s lovely to see you!’

  He smiled at her. ‘Nice to be here. We berthed in the Tyne this morning.’ Peter had his second mate’s ‘ticket’ now, earned by his hard work and courage, and the quicker promotion to meet the demands of wartime. His ship was a coaster on the East Coast convoy run, from the North East down to London and back again. He had seen a lot of ships sunk by U-boats and E-boats but wore no uniform, just a small badge in the lapel of his jacket bearing the letters ‘MN’ for Merchant Navy. He said, ‘I have to go back tomorrow night but I’ll give you a hand here.’

  Chrissie protested, ‘You’re entitled to a rest while you’re between convoys!’ but he insisted, and by nightfall the broken windows were boarded up and the hotel was trading as usual.

  His ship sailed the following night, and just twelve hours later, on a Saturday morning, Matt Ballantyne walked into Chrissie’s office in the Railway Hotel. She looked up and saw him, tall and broad as his father now and in the khaki serge battledress of the Royal Army Medical Corps, the three stripes of a sergeant on his sleeve. He held his beret in his hand and his once unruly sandy hair was clipped short and neatly combed. Chrissie clapped her hands in delight and ran from her desk to kiss him. ‘Matt! How long have you got?’

  He grimaced at the question then grinned good naturedly. ‘People always ask the same thing when you come on leave: “How long have you got?” Or “When do you go back?”’

  ‘Only because we want to make the most of the time while you’re here.’ Chrissie hung on to him happily, feeling the solid strength of him. Then she saw his attention had strayed and she pulled away. ‘But you want to see the bairn!’ and Matt stepped past her to where Robert and little Jean played before the fire.

  Matt squatted on his heels in front of his son, who looked at him shyly because he had only seen his father for a few days at a time when Matt had leave, and was still uncertain of this big stranger. But he relaxed with the innocent confidence of a child as Matt played with the children, helping to build a house with a box of blocks.

  Chrissie brought Sarah to see Matt and he smiled up at her and asked, ‘How’s Tom?’

  She smiled brightly. ‘He’s fine. I get a letter three or four times a week. I don’t know what he’s doing – except flying, of course.’ Tom was in Bomber Command.

  When it was time for the children’s midday meal Matt said, ‘I’ll go up to the hospital and see Helen.’

  He met her outside a ward where she had just finished rounds. She was a medical student, in white coat with a stethoscope around her neck that dug into his chest as she hugged him. They walked in the grounds and talked of Robert. Then Matt said, ‘Now I know what I want to do with my life.’ He had been at Dieppe and seen too many men die, knew how precious life was and was conscious of his own mortality.

  That night before they slept Chrissie said, ‘It was good to see Matt home again.’

  Jack grunted happy agreement. ‘I’m looking forward to having him back in the yard.’

  But Matt would never return to the yard.

  ‘It will be a challenge, of course.’ Ursula Whittle, spruce in a Scotch tweed suit, smiled brightly at Chrissie but blinked behind her spectacles. ‘No doubt the boys will try to take advantage of me but I’ll be ready for them.’ She had been given a post at the local grammar school, which was short of teachers because so many of its young men had gone to the war. The smile hid uncertainty. Ursula had grown in confidence over the years but now she would be breaking new ground. She had come for reassurance.

  Chrissie gave it: ‘Just start as you mean to go on. Jump on the first one who disobeys or gives you cheek. They’ll soon settle down when they know how they stand. I’m sure you’ll be a success.’

  Ursula would give heed to the words later but it was the underlying reassurance coming from Chrissie that she took in. Her smile became less brittle as she relaxed. ‘Where’s Sophie? And Tom?’

  Now Chrissie could have done with some reassurance. She laughed ruefully, ‘Tom is at the same airfield in Lincolnshire but I don’t know about Sophie.’

  In fact, at that moment Sophie stood on a makeshift stage fashioned from oildrums and planks on a desert airstrip. A solitary piano accompanied her as she sang song after song for a thousand men sitting on the sand under a blazing sun. A press photographer was there and took a picture. It appeared in a newspaper some weeks later, and in a shipyard on the Clyde McNally passed a copy to the man who sat beside him as they ate their sandwiches. Gallagher glared at the photograph then crumpled the paper in his big fist. ‘We’ll get even with the bitch one o’ these days!’

  Then one morning the telegraph boy in his pillbox cap pedalled his bicycle up to the Railway Hotel and took a telegram from the pouch on his belt. It was for Sarah, and Chrissie opened it for her. ‘Regret to inform you Flight-Lieutenant Thomas Ballantyne missing . . .’ Sarah held Jean in her arms, all she had left of Tom.

  27

  May 1945

  Almost three years after that telegram, Peter Robinson stood duffel-coated on the bridge of his ship in the last of the night and looked out at the lights. There were the red and green navigation lights of other vessels in the middle distance and further still to westward lay a line of white radiance that marked the coast of Norfolk. The lights were still strange after six years of war, blacked-out countryside and cities, darkened ships.

  The war in Europe was over. He no longer had to be prepared to meet attacks by submarines or E-boats. He had passed his examinations for his first mate’s ‘ticket’ a year ago and now was studying for a master’s. The owners of the shipping line which employed him had told him he could expect a command of his own before too long. He watched the sun rise with hope in his heart.

  Gallagher woke when the sun was high with hatred in his heart. He got out of Fannon’s bed and sat at the kitchen table. He gulped tea made for him by the fat bookmaker, who was dishevelled and worn after spending the night in an armchair with his fear.

  Gallagher said thickly, ‘You say there’s a ladder?’

  Fannon answered nervously, ‘Aye. In the garage under the flat.’

  Gallagher nodded. ‘So now we want a gallon o’ paraffin and a bottle o’ gin.’

  McNally sat up on the settee, yawning. ‘I could do wi’ some beer.’

  ‘I’ll fetch some. And the gin.’ Fannon licked his loose lips. ‘What d’ye want the paraffin for?’

  Gallagher glared at him out of cold little eyes. ‘Just get it.’

  Fannon left without a word.

  That same evening Chrissie and Jack sat in the stalls at the Empire Theatre. They watched and listened as their daughter Sophie, top of the bill as ‘the broadcasting and recording star’, wound up the show to a roar of applause and several curtains. Jack sniffed and blinked while Chrissie wept openly and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

  In Sophie’s dressing-room Jack said gruffly, ‘Well done, lass.’ Chrissie kissed Sophie, who laughed at her parents out of sheer happiness. Topping the bill in this theatre was a dream come true, all her hopes realised – well, almost.

  She told them, ‘I’m expecting Peter home tonight and I want to make some suppe
r for him. So I’ll just clean this make-up off and change then get along there.’

  Sophie had told them when she arrived at the start of the week for this engagement at the Empire, ‘I’m going to live in the flat.’ It was empty while Peter was at sea – Billy Hackett lived with Chrissie and Jack. ‘It will be handy for the theatre and I expect it could do with a dusting.’

  Jack had wanted to ask questions but Chrissie had caught his eye and he refrained. Later he said to her, worried about his daughter, ‘What’s going on?’

  Chrissie answered tranquilly, ‘I trust Sophie and I trust Peter, so we don’t need to ask.’

  Sophie left the theatre at her usual time, only ten minutes after her parents. She knew Peter’s ship was due to dock about one in the morning and he would be at his flat behind the old Ballantyne Hotel by two. All the streets were lit now, though the narrow lane that led down past the side of the Ballantyne Hotel had only one lamp. That was sufficient to show Sophie, high heels tapping on the cobbles, the way into the yard through the double gates that stood open. The hotel itself, still government property but no longer a hostel, stood empty and dark. Rain was beginning to fall as she turned her key in the lock of the door to the flat, locked it behind her and climbed the stairs. There was no light on the stairs but a red glow in the sitting-room above that came from the embers of a fire in the grate. She thought that first she should put some coal on the fire. As she came to the head of the stairs she saw the furniture in the shadowed room, the table with its spread cloth and the vase of flowers she had set there. Then as she stepped into the room the hand went across her mouth, and arms wrapped around her.

  For a moment she was frozen in shock, only her eyes shifting frantically, taking in that the curtains were drawn. She thought that she should have seen them from outside and remembered she had left them open. She saw it was the burly Gallagher standing on her left, whose hand was over her mouth, and big McNally on her right whose apelike arms pinned her own to her sides. Both wore dark suits. Stepping out from the shadows, old raincoat tight over his belly, reluctant and frightened, came Josh Fannon.

  Shock gave way to panic then and Sophie fought. She twisted and wriggled, threw herself from side to side to try to break free. McNally only laughed and held her easily. She could smell the drink on his breath. Then she kicked out, hacking with the high heels and now she brought grunts of pain and curses from the two men holding her. Gallagher snarled at Fannon, ‘Get hold of her legs! We want her on the bed!’

  Fannon obeyed, bending to catch Sophie’s legs, yelping with pain as she kicked him, but persevering as Gallagher cursed him. He held her ankles, pulled off the shoes and with the others dragged her to the bed in the corner, threw her on to it. Gallagher knelt on top of her, his knees grinding painfully into her upper arms, his hand still clamped over her mouth after she had tried to bite him and failed. He panted, ‘One o’ you get those bottles opened and bring the gin here.’ Then he glared down at Sophie. ‘You’ll be bloody sorry you crossed me. You got us kicked out of our jobs and put me back on the shop floor in a strange town wi’ a lot o’ bloody Jocks. I’ll make you pay for that . . .’ He went on, mouthing obscenities.

  Meanwhile McNally held Sophie’s legs, grinning at her drunkenly. Her eyes rolling, Sophie watched Fannon fetch a canvas shopping bag from the shadows and take from it a pint-sized bottle and a gallon can. He opened both and called shakily, ‘Do you want me to toss the paraffin around?’

  ‘No! Not yet!’ Gallagher twisted his head to snarl at the fat man. ‘Bring the gin over here! I told you! We’ll pour that down her, strip the clothes off her and leave her in the bed. When they find her it’ll look like a coal fell out o’ the fire and she never woke up!’ He showed his teeth when he saw the horror in Sophie’s eyes. He took the bottle from Fannon and released her mouth only to seize her nose. Sophie screamed once, emptying her lungs, then choked as the neck of the bottle was thrust between her teeth and the raw spirit flooded into her mouth.

  Peter Robinson came up the stairs and into the room at a run. He swept Fannon out of his way with a back-handed swing of his clubbed fist that took the fat man in the face and sent him staggering into the table. It overturned and he fell with it. The gallon can of paraffin went flying and landed on its side on the fender, its contents pouring out.

  McNally had released his grip on Sophie’s legs and was trying to turn to face this threat. He was too late. Peter seized him by the lapels of his jacket, swung him aside and McNally’s legs tangled. Then Peter threw him after Fannon. They sprawled in a heap, Fannon wheezing and McNally cursing. Then both of them yelled as the paraffin, gurgling out of the can in the fireplace, ignited with a whoosh!

  Gallagher lashed out with the gin bottle he held but Peter caught his wrist and used Gallagher’s own momentum to pull him off the bed. He fell awkwardly, face down, with a crash that shook the floor. The bottle broke but he still held the neck, ready to use it as a weapon. He pulled his hands under him to shove himself up but Sophie, released from his weight, rolled over, choking and retching, then fell off the bed. Peter caught her by the shoulders, but her legs and all her weight behind them smashed down on the back of Gallagher’s neck. He was slammed face down on the floor again and the fragment of broken bottle he held was driven into his throat.

  Sophie tried to scramble away and Peter lifted her to her feet and ran her to the head of the stairs. McNally rolled wildly over the floor with flailing arms, trying to extinguish the flames licking from his jacket. Fannon was struggling to stand and pulling off his smouldering raincoat. The room was filling with smoke and all of them were coughing. Peter shoved Sophie ahead of him down the stairs: ‘Get out of here!’ At the bottom she yanked the door towards her and staggered out into the cool night air.

  Peter followed her and made sure the door swung shut behind him. He took Sophie’s arm and led her clear of the building, into the lane, and only then let her stop and rest. But he still watched the door of the flat to see if they were being pursued.

  Fannon, who had been sent by Gallagher the night before to reconnoitre, had found the ladder in the garage below. They had climbed it to reach the window they broke to get in. Fannon did not think of the ladder now, and instead ran for the stairs. The others followed him in their panic.

  Fannon was first to blunder through the smoke and flames to the head of the stairs but McNally was close on his heels. Gallagher followed, with a hand trying to staunch the flow of blood from the awful wound that was draining his life away. McNally tried to shove Fannon aside but only succeeded in thrusting him head first down the stairs. Fannon fell, rolling. His skull crashed against the door at the bottom and he lay still. McNally followed him, wild to get away from the room with its mounting flames and throttling smoke. He stood on Fannon’s body to get at the door but then found he could not open it because of Fannon’s loose bulk jammed against it. He attempted to step back and haul the obstruction clear, but found Gallagher in his way. Gallagher was on his knees, dying, sliding down to join Fannon. McNally cried for help but nothing came from his open mouth because the smoke filled it and choked him.

  Peter and Sophie stood under the rain that was now a deluge, uncaring. Sophie leaned against the wall, head back, feeling the downpour sluicing blessedly clean and cold over her face. She breathed deeply, glad to be alive.

  Peter saw flames spurting through the roof of the flat and licking up the curtains at the windows. The inside was lit red like a furnace. He looked away, took Sophie into his arms and held her against him. She mumbled, shuddering, ‘They said they were going to kill me. I thought your ship wasn’t due in till one in the morning. It’s not midnight yet.’

  Peter answered absently, stroking her hair, ‘We developed engine trouble and had to put into Hull. She’ll be there for a few days so I came on by train. I’d just put my key in the lock when I heard you scream.’ His grip on her tightened. ‘It was just luck I was here. Just luck. If it wasn’t for that . . .’ But he could not bear t
o think what would have happened if he had not come to the flat when he had. He could not face the thought of losing her.

  He held her, the pair of them standing in the rain as the fire burnt through the roof. It lit them and the alley with a rippling tiger’s skin of light and black shadows as the wind fanned the flames. Then they heard above its roaring the clanging of bells and the fire engines braked at the mouth of the alley.

  Peter walked Sophie away then, still holding her, and now he spoke from the heart: ‘Listen, I’ve got a decent job and a chance of a better one, but it wouldn’t matter if I was out of work and back getting coal off the tip. I want you. I don’t care how much money you’ve got. And you can sing all you like, but I want you. Now. Not tomorrow or next year – now.’

  Sophie turned up her face, reached up to lock her fingers in his wet hair and pulled his head down to kiss him.

  One morning a week later Sarah smiled at the girl on reception in the Railway Hotel and told her, ‘You get away for a break now. I’ll look after the desk.’ She stood behind it, slender in a simple ‘utility’ cotton dress, glancing through the register to confirm who was leaving that day and who was expected. Dinsdale Arkley had retired at the end of the war in Europe and Sarah was virtually manager of the hotel now, sharing the duties with Chrissie. They shared the care of Sarah’s three-year-old daughter, Jean, too. Sarah had been grateful for the work, to be able to immerse herself in it. She had never given up hope that Tom might have survived, but as the weeks dragged by into months and years without word, that hope was worn thin. She told herself that she had a career and Jean, and that was enough, but she still grieved.

  She did not look up when she heard the flap of the swing doors opening, her slim finger halfway down one page, but when she reached its end she raised her eyes and her heart lurched. Tom Ballantyne stood on the other side of the desk in a well-worn Royal Air Force uniform, his cap in his hand.