Darkest Before Dawn (18 page)

Martha waited until the two older girls had gone, then turned to her youngest. ‘And what are you going to do with yourself today, my love?' she asked. ‘There are a few little jobs around the house that I'd like you to do, but nothing else. And it's far too fine a day to spend indoors. Is Percy coming round?'

Martha knew that, during school holidays, Percy and her daughter spent a good deal of time together. She had no doubt that many of their ploys were kept secret, but she also knew that they joined together, whenever possible, to earn some money. They needed pennies for such things as the Saturday rush at the cinema, bus or tram rides out into the country, or the little extras – sweets and fruit – which children the world over enjoy when they have the opportunity. She had a strong suspicion that neither would think twice about nicking coal from the yards behind the station, fades from the fruit market, or anything from anywhere which seemed to belong to no one in particular, but though she knew that Harry would not have approved – she disapproved herself, come to that – she also remembered her own childhood and how it had seemed fair game to follow the cart carrying cabbages, in order to pick up and run off with any that fell from the load.

So now she looked enquiringly at Evie, but received only a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders in reply; whatever Evie was going to do today, she did not intend to talk about it. Martha reached down her overall from its hook and put it on; it was one of two dark brown wraparounds which tied at the back, grudgingly provided by Mr Wilmslow. Then she said goodbye to Evie, who was already clearing the table, preparatory to washing the crocks, and set off down the stairs.

By the time she entered the shop, Mr Wilmslow had opened up and was serving the first customer, a railway worker who popped in most days to buy what he termed his ‘snap'. He usually bought six milk rolls, a wedge of cheese and a couple of iced buns, and now he was discoursing loudly on the contents of his newspaper as he waited for Mr Wilmslow to wrap his purchases. ‘There ain't no doubt that war's coming, and coming fast,' he announced portentously. ‘Them bleedin' wops walked into Albania without so much as a by your leave, and the government is going to evacuate all the kids from big cities like Liverpool into the country just as soon as that old Hitler oversteps the mark. As for that old Chamberlain . . .' He snorted. ‘Peace for our time, indeed! Oh aye, there's war comin' all right, you tek my word. Even the bleedin' government can see that.'

‘I'm sure you're right, Mr Brown,' Mr Wilmslow said politely. Martha thought, rather bitterly, that regular male customers were always right, so far as her employer was concerned. ‘That'll be one shilling, please, sir. Yes, I'm sure you're right.'

‘Well I am; an' I'm too old to be prescripted,' Mr Brown said piously, rather spoiling the effect by adding: ‘Not but what I'd dearly like to give Hitler a bloody nose, an' that Eyetie an' all . . . Musclebound, or whatever 'is name is.'

‘Conscripted,' Mr Wilmslow said mildly. ‘And from what I've read in the papers, the fellow in charge of the Italians is Mussolini. But I scarce dare open a newspaper these days because the news is always bad, and I don't let one near Mrs Wilmslow. She'd be that upset if she knew there might be a war . . .'

Martha slipped behind the counter as another customer entered the shop, but all the while she was serving, she was listening to Mr Brown's conversation. ‘My newspaper says old Chamberlain's thrown down the gauntlet – that's a glove, that is . . . My newspaper says Hitler won't stop at the Polish border, he'll march right on, just to show old Chamberlain who's boss.'

‘Aye, I dare say you're right,' Mr Wilmslow said placatingly, shooting a sideways glance at Martha as he did so. Having frequently heard her employer saying that there was no truth in such statements and that folk who said there was a war coming were just troublemakers who deserved to be shot, Martha lowered her eyes. Mr Wilmslow knew very well that she would not give him away, and of course he had no idea how she felt herself because she would not have dreamed of admitting it. But Martha bought the
Echo
daily and agreed with Mr Brown that Britain could not fail to become embroiled in what was happening in Europe. I'm glad I've got girls, Martha thought to herself as she took her customer's money and went to the till to get change. If I had boys I'd be most dreadfully worried because I'm sure they'd be called up for the armed services – prescripted, as Mr Brown called it – and young men are foolhardy and find war exciting. Girls, thank God, are different.

Perhaps because Mr Brown had started it, however, the talk in the shop that morning was mostly concerned with the threat of war. One customer remarked, bitterly, that she saw no reason why Londoners should be given free air raid shelters whilst folk like herself would have to make their own arrangements. ‘Me son – he's in the Navy, as you know – says it's because London is a port and they're certain to bomb ports, but Liverpool's a port an' all, so we're bound to get hammered sooner or later. They did ought to give us free bomb shelters as well.'

‘Nah, we'll be all right,' another customer remarked. ‘We're too far away from the Continent; them Boche won't be able to reach us. Oh, I saw the pictures in the papers, and the newsreels, about how they bombed Madrid, but that's only next door, so to speak. All them foreign countries is only next door, whereas us, we's an island.' The middle-aged woman who had spoken chuckled hoarsely. ‘Oh aye, the old Irish Sea will keep us safe, you mark my words.'

‘And the Channel,' someone else observed. ‘They've gorrer cross the Channel before they can bomb old London, so maybe the cockney sparrers won't need them shelters after all.'

Mr Wilmslow was on the bacon slicer, turning the handle and obviously trying to ignore the conversation, but as he neatly fielded the last slice and wrapped the order in greaseproof paper, he turned to survey his customers. Martha grinned to herself. They were all women and Mr Wilmslow rarely allowed his female customers to get away with anything, so she guessed he would soon interrupt and waited with considerable interest, for the women who were discussing the war were not the sort to allow Mr Wilmslow to push them around.

‘Well I dunno about Madrid being only next door, but I do know as the fellers say there'll be war before Christmas, and if you ask me we should've stopped them earlier – the Huns, I mean,' another woman said. ‘We should've stopped 'em last year when they attacked their own people . . . what did they call it? Oh aye, Crystal Night. We should've declared war then.'

There were murmurs of agreement from other women in the shop and Martha saw Mr Wilmslow's neck redden and his thin cheeks begin to swell, and waited for the explosion. She did not have to wait long. ‘Women!' Mr Wilmslow snarled. ‘Anyone would think you wanted a war. Well, most of you's young I suppose and can't remember the last lot, but I do remember it. There were rationing, and a terrible shortage of food, clothing, fuel . . . everything what makes life endurable. If you were rich, you did okay, but—'

A large, red-faced woman in her sixties cut across the shopkeeper's remarks. ‘Now that I do take issue with, Mr Wilmslow,' she said angrily. ‘Why, the king himself said that everyone, rich 'n' poor alike, must tighten their belts and eat less bread. And that there Kettle chap – or were it Keppel – what were in charge of the king's household, he said as how the royal family had always stuck to the same rations as the rest of us. So you tek back what you just now said.'

For a moment, Mr Wilmslow looked as though he might be going to order the customer out of his shop, but she was large and strong and a regular customer; Martha could almost see her employer thinking better of it. Instead of the angry words she was sure he would have liked to utter, he said placatingly: ‘Well, what a memory you've got, Mrs Kavanagh, and you no more than a child at the time! But I weren't meanin' the royals when I said the rich, because everyone knows royals is different.' He turned to the next customer. ‘Yes, missus, what can I get you?'

Up in the flat, Evie made beds, swept and dusted, peeled potatoes for the evening meal, and cut bread and marge for the snack which she and her mother would share later. Only when she felt she had done all the jobs necessary to keep the flat in apple-pie order did she head for the stairs. She and Percy usually had some scheme going and today they meant to go to the pet shops on Heyworth Street to see if the owners wanted old lettuce or cabbage leaves for their collections of rabbits, guinea pigs and chinchillas. If so – and if they would pay for such provender – then she and Percy would go to the wholesale fruit and veg market on Great Nelson Street with their collecting bag and pick up any unwanted greenery lying around.

Both children were quite aware that they were not supposed to enter the market and equally aware that their presence, if detected, would lead to their immediate expulsion, probably accompanied by a clip round the ear. But they considered it was worth the risk since they could fill the bag in two minutes flat, whereas if they went to one of the street markets, not only would it take far longer to collect sufficient vegetable matter, but they would be competing against every kid in the neighbourhood whilst the schools were still on holiday.

During term time, of course, it was different. Evie and Percy did not sag off school often, but when they did they certainly never wasted their time haunting the markets. Instead, they would skip a lecky which was going into the country – or even pay the fare and travel like Christians – and spend a blissful day picking wild flowers. At Christmas, of course, they had collected holly and mistletoe, in January and February great masses of delicate snowdrops, in March the little wild daffodils. Now, in April, it would be primroses and violets. The flowers they picked would be tied into tiny bunches and sold either from door to door or to folk queuing outside cinemas and theatres, for even the most hardened young lady would go all dewy-eyed if her young man presented her with a sweet-smelling bunch of spring flowers.

But if one made an expedition into the countryside one started early and did not return for the midday meal, and in the school holidays Evie had responsibilities which she took very seriously. Her mother took it for granted that Evie would do the housework and prepare a simple meal whilst she and her other two daughters were working. And Evie was proud that her mother trusted her and would never let her down. Sagging off school was another matter altogether, for her mother expected her to be away all day, and somehow managed to do both chores and any messages herself, knowing – or believing, rather – that her youngest was in school and would remain there till four o'clock.

Now, however, Evie meant to go round to Percy's house and pick him up so that they could make their way to Heyworth Street together. If rabbit food was wanted, then they would continue on to the market, but if not, they would still volunteer to clean out all the pets' cages and boxes, for this was a job they both loved. On board the
Mary Jane
Evie had once been the possessor of a grand ginger kitten, which she had loved devotedly. When he grew into a strong and clever cat, he had often brought young rabbits home which Martha had been glad to take for the pot, though Ginger always got the head and guts. But just before they had moved out of the
Mary Jane
, Hetty and Jim had asked if they might keep Ginger, and Evie, who truly loved her pet, had agreed, regretfully, that this might be the kindest thing. ‘He's a canal cat, sweetheart,' her father had said gently, seeing the tears shining her eyes and slipping down her cheeks. ‘He wouldn't be happy living in a flat over a grocer's shop, even though I dare say he would soon clear the entire neighbourhood of mice. And you can visit him whenever the boat moors down by the docks,' he had finished.

This, however, had not been possible. The first time Evie had gone down with her mother and sisters to visit the
Mary Jane
, Hetty had admitted that Ginger had stalked off the boat when they had pulled alongside the farm in which the cat had been born and had not returned. Hetty had asked the farmer and his wife if they had seen the cat, but they had not done so. Hetty, who admitted she had been looking forward to being provided with young rabbits for the pot, had kept her eyes open, but had not seen so much as a whisker of their furry friend.

Evie, imagining her Ginger caught in a trap and starving to death, or being kidnapped by gypsies, had cried herself to sleep for a week, but once again her father had comforted her. ‘Ginger knows all about traps and is far too cunning to get caught in one,' he had said robustly. ‘As for being kidnapped, don't you mean catnapped? He is far too independent to stay with anyone against his will. He'll have found himself a new home – and remember, sweetheart, he's a male cat. He's probably got himself a nice little wife and a litter of beautiful kittens, and he will be far too busy providing for them to think about returning to Hetty and Jim. He scarcely knows them, after all.'

So now, though Evie missed her dear Ginger and thought of him often, she no longer worried about him, and her trips to the pet shops made up, in some degree, for her lack of a pet of her own. She and Percy had discussed the possibility of acquiring a kitten; they did not mean to buy one but thought they might steal one from amongst the raggle-taggle collection of cats who moused for a living down by the docks, and produced kittens on a regular basis. However, even though she was working again, thanks to Evie's mother, Mrs Baldwin had been horrified at the thought of another mouth to feed, albeit such a tiny one, and Martha herself, though sympathetic, had said she would have to obtain Mr Wilmslow's permission before introducing a cat into the premises, and had felt that this might be easier when summer came since then the kitten could do its business outside. It had been this, in fact, which had stopped Evie from getting a cat, for where would such business be performed? The tiny yard at the back of the shop was paved, the jigger was cobbled and the nearest suitable space was St Martin's Recreation Ground. The poor little kitten would be bursting long before it reached real earth, Evie had concluded, and she had abandoned her plans to provide the family with a pet.