The Leaving of Liverpool (8 page)

 

Emily was unaware of her mother’s speculative gaze. She hadn’t enjoyed herself so much for years. All the scraping and making do was over, as was the worrying and waiting. The future looked rosy and she’d found Edwin far more entertaining and interesting than she’d done before the war. But she’d been barely out of school then, she reasoned.

‘I told you you’d enjoy it.’

‘A right little Miss Knowall, aren’t you?’ he teased.

‘Not always, but I thought you needed cheering up.’

‘Oh, did you? Have I been going around with my chin on the floor or something?’

She laughed. ‘No, but you just seemed a bit down and you’re not the only one. What
is
the matter with Master James? Not a single word can I get out of him, although our Phoebe-Ann seems to find plenty to talk to him about and she swears he talks to her for hours, but then she always did exaggerate.’

Edwin’s smile vanished. ‘He just needs time to get over it. I saw a lot of men like that. He’ll be all right.’

‘Well, whatever it is they talk about must have some effect on him. I’ve seen him. He follows her with his eyes. Watches her every movement, sort of intent yet . . . hopefully, if you know what I mean? Oh, I’m useless at putting into the right words what I mean!’

‘I can always understand you, Em.’

She let her gaze drop. Was she imagining it or was there a different tone in his voice and why did she suddenly feel confused and silly? She raised her hand to her cheek then snatched it away. She was blushing! Thank God it was dark and the bonfire at the top of the street had been lit and was blazing cheerfully, throwing out an orange glow that would disguise her flushed cheeks. But she was wrong.

‘You’re blushing, Emily Parkinson!’

‘I’m not!’ she retorted.

He reached and took her hand and squeezed it. ‘You should be. All nice girls do when men pay this much attention to them.’

She tried to snatch her hand away but he held it tightly. ‘Do you like me, Emily?’

‘Of course I like you! I always have!’

‘You know what I mean. Stop acting as though you don’t. I like you. I’d go so far as to say I’m fond of you, Em.’

Things were going too fast and she should have some polite reply ready but she could think of nothing and her heart was beginning to thump wildly against her ribs. ‘I . . . I . . . do like you, Edwin.’

‘Enough to come out with me on our next day off?’

She nodded. Unable to trust herself to speak.

He squeezed her hand again but, as Albert returned to resume his expertise on the piano, urged on by half a dozen very merry men and women, she just smiled at him and was content to watch the merriment, her hand still in his, until the moment was shattered by the clanging of bells and the shout of ‘Eh, up! It’s the fire bobby come to put the damper on things! Stoke up the fire, kids! Give ’em something to work at!’ and they both laughed.

 

The flames of the numerous bonfires and the sounds of the celebrations could be seen and heard in Upper Huskisson Street. James Mercer sat in his darkened room facing the half-open window and, as the festivities progressed, his depression increased. His mind was tormented by the horrific images and sounds that invaded it until he felt that his head would explode. It was all happening again: the thundering of the guns, the flashes of exploding shells, the cries, the screams and it was his fault. They had been his orders, he’d sent them all over the top, he’d sent them to their agonizing deaths while he’d come through unscathed. He could hear himself shouting to them now but it was too late! Too late!

A slow, gut-churning anger began to take hold of him. It hadn’t been all his fault. Someone else had given those orders. Nameless, faceless men who sat in safe, warm, comfortable places. Well, he’d take no more of their orders! He’d send no more men or boys to die in the mud! Obstacles seemed to bar his way. Obstacles he really couldn’t distinguish, but they were there, and they were stopping them all from leaving. The anger increased to fury and he lashed out, hurling the objects out of his path. He was getting out, they were getting out and nothing or no-one was going to stop them this time.

 

Richard Mercer and Olivia had just finished dinner when the first crash shattered the silence of the house. It was followed by another and the sound of breaking glass and china.

‘Oh, Papa! Papa, what was that?’ Olivia screamed.

‘Sit down, Olivia! I’ll see what’s happened. You stay here.’

As he hastened up the stairs the splintering of furniture continued, accompanied by curses and shouts. His face paled as he thought, ‘He’s lost control! He’s lost control of himself!’

Total devastation met his eyes as he flung open the door and switched on the light. Furniture lay broken and splintered and overturned. The long mirror had been shattered and the ornaments and clock lay amongst the debris. The curtains were torn and the window had been smashed, its glass carpeting the floor, its wooden lathes and spars hanging brokenly. But his horrified gaze rested on his son who was sitting on the bed, shaking, fighting for breath, his features haggard, his eyes wild with terror. Richard Mercer was shocked to the core.

‘James! James! For God’s sake what happened?’ He laid a hand on his son’s shoulder.

‘I was trapped! We were all trapped! We couldn’t get out!’ He gazed up at his father, the terror receding, to be replaced by confusion. ‘I didn’t . . . I couldn’t have done . . . this?’

Richard Mercer pulled himself together. ‘It’s all right, James! It was just a sort of nightmare. These things happen, so I’m told, after . . . after terrible experiences. There’s no need to be alarmed or afraid. None of this matters.’ He gestured with his hand towards the wrecked bedroom.

‘I . . . I did all that? I can’t remember. There were flames and shouting . . .’ He was calmer.

‘Just the victory parties in the streets around the corner. Nothing to worry about at all. Nothing. We’ll move your things into one of the guest rooms for tonight.’ He continued to pat his son’s shoulder. ‘Nothing but a nightmare. I’ll get you a drink and then you’ll be able to sleep peacefully.’

 

Olivia was standing at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the carved newel post. ‘What’s the matter, Papa?’

‘Nothing to worry about. James had a rather bad nightmare, some things got broken. I’m going to put him in one of the guest rooms and get him a stiff drink.’

‘But Edwin’s not here. He’s at the victory party, they all are!’

‘That’s not important. I’ll help him . . . move. Now, off you go to wherever it was you said you were going. Abigail’s, was it?’ He managed a smile. ‘And enjoy yourself, your brother’s fine.’

As he watched her go up the stairs he sighed with relief. He was thankful that Edwin, Emily and Phoebe-Ann were not in the house. The least everyone knew the better. He’d clear up the mess himself and think up a suitable explanation. It
was
just a nightmare. Nothing more sinister than that, he told himself.

O
LIVIA WAS BORED. THE soirée was the only thing she had to look forward to and even the preparations for that had begun to pall. Twice her father had impressed upon her the fact that she should now try to perform the duties of hostess with the same calm dignity her mother had always radiated on such occasions. She’d been horrified. She was only eighteen and he wanted her to behave like a matron of twenty-eight! She was young. She wanted to have fun. She didn’t want to be dignified, for that word she had in her mind substituted ‘dull’. The more she thought about it, the less interested and excited she felt. The way things were going it would be a dreadful evening. And James would be no help either.

He was no fun at all these days, not the way he’d been before the war. Then he’d always been ready for a joke or some kind of a lark, and his recent violent outburst had frightened her. What had made him act like that? She supposed he had some kind of illness but everyone was very vague on the subject. She stared morosely out of the window. It was hot and sticky. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Not a leaf rustled on the trees that lined the road. It was going to be a very boring weekend and a longer one than usual for Monday was a bank holiday. Everyone would be taking advantage of the good weather to go somewhere or do something.

She turned away and sat down at the dressing table studying her reflection in the mirror with distaste. She hated her hair even more than usual today. When the weather was so hot it was heavy and even more inclined to curl up. She brightened as an idea took hold of her and she smiled. She’d have it cut in the new short style. Yes, that’s what she’d do! Papa wouldn’t like it but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. She gathered up the copper ringlets and tried to arrange them in an approximation of the short bob. She was certain she would suit it and perhaps she would start a trend. She’d read that lots of girls in London had had their long locks shorn, but she’d not seen a single girl in Liverpool who’d dared to follow the new fashion. But she would and she might even get her picture in the paper, in the society column of course.

The sounds of the street came floating in through the open window and some of her excitement faded. It was Saturday lunch time so who could she ask to accompany her on her excursion? There was Abigail but she’d just go on and on about her forthcoming wedding and she was sick of hearing about how wonderful life would become when she was married. And Abbie was such a stick-in-the-mud that she’d probably be horrified by her plan. She could ask Marjorie but then she remembered that she was playing tennis with Freddie and he was so sickeningly stupid.

‘It’s another scorcher, miss.’

Olivia turned at the sound of Phoebe-Ann’s voice. ‘I hate the heat and it gives me a headache!’ she replied, peevishly.

Phoebe-Ann sighed. Olivia was obviously in one of her moods. It would take all her powers of persuasion and flattery to coax her into a better humour.

‘Shall I get you an aspirin?’

‘No, they make me feel sick!’

‘Shall I draw you a bath? It may cool you a little as long as it’s not too hot.’

Olivia glared at her. ‘I’ve already had one bath today!’ She paused and tilted her head to one side. ‘Phoebe-Ann, do you think I’d suit my hair short?’

Phoebe-Ann’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Short!’

‘Yes. I saw a new style in a magazine and it looked so . . . modern.’

‘Oh, miss! Don’t have your beautiful hair cut off!’

‘Why not? It’s so old-fashioned and so impossible to manage and it gives me a headache! I honestly think that’s why I get so many headaches! There is so much of it and it’s so heavy! So, you see it will be for . . . medical reasons as well!’

Phoebe-Ann looked at her as though she had lost her senses. She often wished her own hair would curl, instead of being dead straight, but to cut it . . . !

‘Don’t look at me like that! As though I’ve suggested I walk stark naked down Bold Street! Look. It’s so . . . chic!’ Olivia picked up the magazine and leafed through the pages until she found what she was looking for, then she shoved it towards Phoebe-Ann.

‘Well, it does look . . . different,’ Phoebe-Ann conceded doubtfully.

‘That’s settled then! Has Papa gone out?’

‘Yes. About fifteen minutes ago.’

Olivia’s eyes were shining. ‘I’ll get dressed and we’ll go to town.’ A plan was forming in her mind and it made her eyes sparkle with mischief.

‘We?’

‘You can come with me.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you! I’ve got this wonderful idea! It will be such fun!’

Phoebe-Ann caught some of Olivia’s excitement. It was a great treat to be allowed to accompany Olivia, to see all the beautiful things she bought and they were treated with such deference in the shops. At least Miss Olivia was. She just carried the parcels.

‘I’ll wear the cream linen two-piece with the blue blouse,’ Olivia decided.

 

By the time they got to Bold Street it was crowded with shoppers and the sun’s heat was fiery. A young lad, clad in trousers too big for him and a patched shirt, was standing outside the entrance to Central Station selling the
Daily Post
. ‘Police strike! Police to go on strike! Read all about it!’ he bawled.

Phoebe-Ann bought a copy. ‘Oh, miss! Do you think it will come to a strike? What will we do if it does?’

Olivia looked at her as though she were speaking a foreign language. ‘What does it matter if they do have their silly strike?’

‘What will people do without them?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, nor do I care! Throw it away and stop fussing!’

Phoebe-Ann did as she was told and followed her mistress into the Salon Augustine with trepidation and foreboding. Feelings that soon gave way to fascination as she watched Olivia’s long, shining curls fall to the floor accompanied by cries of admiration from the whole staff. The small Frenchman deftly snipped and cut until at last he stood back and admired his handiwork with a cry of pure delight.