Orphans of the Storm (16 page)
‘Finished, Mam,’ Debbie said, putting down her pencil. ‘Did the school give you the answers or just the problems? Only, if you’ve gorra work them out, who’s to say whether my answer or yours is right?’
Jess laughed. ‘Who’s to say our answers won’t be the same?’ she countered. ‘But the teacher did give me the answers, as it happens. It was kind of Miss Rogers to give you some work, even if you don’t appreciate it.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Debbie retorted, though this was not entirely true. She found she was often bored, for already shortages were beginning to bite and she seemed to spend hours standing in queues. Of course she grumbled about being given work to do at home but at least it gave her something to think about other than the war. It was all very well for her mother: Jess was now managing the chemist’s shop full time, for Mr Jarvis had retired, and she had also joined the Local Defence Volunteers, which meant that she was out on official business two or three nights a week. If I were a boy, I could be a messenger and have a bicycle, Debbie thought longingly, pushing the sheet of mathematical problems across the table. If I were a bit older, if I were already fourteen, then I could get a job at one of the big factories out on Long Lane. I’d have proper money then and pals to talk to; I reckon it ’ud be grand to work in a factory. Her job at Deakin’s had finished with the start of the war, for customer numbers had shrunk as men were called up and those remaining had less money to spare. Debbie had looked desultorily for another job, but so far had been unable to find one.
Jess produced a piece of paper from her pocket and compared it with her daughter’s answers, then smiled encouragingly. ‘You’ve gorr’em all right,’ she said. ‘It just goes to show that you’ve not forgotten all you were taught. And now, how about that essay? What was the subject again?’
Debbie’s sigh came all the way up from her boots. ‘“Careless talk costs lives”,’ she said bitterly. ‘What sort of a subject is that? I’m just about sick to death of being told “Tittle tattle lost the battle” and “Kill that rumour – it’s helping Hitler”. You’d think there was a Nazi spy in every household, hiding under the kitchen table.’
‘Never mind, queen. English is your best subject so I’m sure you’ll be able to produce something really good. Miss Rogers said to hand all the work to her next time we’re passing, so if you start writing at once I’ll drop it off tomorrow on my way to work.’
‘All right, Ma,’ Debbie said. She reached for the pencil and flipped open her exercise book. ‘By the way, old Mrs Finnigan said she’d found up some good stiff paper and a small tin of black gloss paint. She said we could paint the paper black and make blinds for the front parlour; the bedrooms, too, if we’d a mind. I wasn’t sure whether you’d have managed to get proper material from somewhere so I didn’t say we’d take it; what do you think?’
‘If it weren’t for the bleedin’ blackout, I’d go round to the market right now and pay whatever she’s asking,’ Jess said fervently. ‘But then I suppose the market is shut, which at least means she can’t sell the stuff to anyone else. So if you’ll go round tomorrow morning, as soon as we’ve finished breakfast . . . oh, and best get some drawing pins, or nails or something, to put the blinds up with when we’ve made ’em.’
Debbie was scribbling busily away, but she nodded abstractedly as her mother finished speaking. ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll call for Gwen and we can start searching the shops for bits and pieces which are in short supply. After all, Christmas is only a couple of months away and you’ll be wanting to make your Christmas cake in plenty of time, I expect.’
Jess nodded, picked up her knitting and squinted anxiously at the pattern she was following. This had been issued by the government and was consequently standardised, but Jess, remembering Ken who had had large hands and feet, always added a few extra rows when making gloves and socks. ‘Good girl. You’re quite right about the Christmas cake, because once everyone begins to bake there won’t be a currant or a sultana for miles and we’ll be thanking heaven for dried eggs, I dare say.’
Debbie pulled a face. ‘Why don’t we keep a few chickens, Mam?’ she asked eagerly. ‘We’ve gorra decent sized backyard and the shed where I keep my bicycle could house a dozen or so hens easily. And I’d look after ’em, honest I would. I’d clean ’em out an’ all that. I know you’ve never let me have a dog because you said it were another mouth to feed and you didn’t think I’d bother to exercise it when I came home late after working at Deakin’s, but hens is different and one thing I do have is plenty of spare time.’
Debbie half expected her mother to scoff at the idea, but instead Jess agreed at once. ‘Only you’ll have to buy ’em and find out from whoever sells them to you what you’ll need to rear ’em,’ she said. ‘You might get some advice from the Hudsons in Harebell Street. Mr Hudson used to keep hens and a pig on his allotment, so he’ll know what you should do.’
Debbie agreed that she would consult Mr Hudson before parting with her money, and immediately after breakfast next morning she rushed to Paddy’s Market to get the stiff paper and the black paint from Mrs Finnigan, returned to the house with her booty, and then went round to Harebell Street.
When Mrs Hudson led Debbie into the kitchen, Mr Hudson was trying on a tin hat in front of the cracked piece of mirror on the mantelpiece, and he peered, toothlessly, at their visitor. ‘I’ve joined the Local Defence Volunteers ’cos they say I’m too old for the forces,’ he announced, grinning at her through the mirror. ‘Hang on a minute whilst I put me teeth in.’ There was a sharp chink and a crunch, which made Debbie wince, then the old man turned and grinned at her, his dentures gleaming. ‘Oh, it’s you, young Debbie. How’s your mam? An’ what can I do for you? Alfie from next door is doin’ us messages if you’re after a job.’
Debbie assured him that it was only information she was after and presently left the house with reams of advice still ringing in her ears. He had suggested that she buy what he called ‘in-lay’ pullets, since such birds, though a deal more expensive than the day-old chicks she had thought to acquire, would start producing eggs very much sooner. He gave her the name of a farmer who would sell her such pullets, advised her what price to pay, and told her to buy a sack of meal since it came cheaper that way, a small amount of grain, and to add leftover food – cabbage leaves, potato peelings and such – to the meal, which must be mixed with hot water before being fed to her new charges.
By the time Jess came home that evening, the pullets were shut in the shed and Debbie, helped by Mick from down the road, had made them a run from a roll of wire netting and some pieces of wood which she had begged from a nearby timber yard. Debbie led her mother out to the shed and together they peered through the tiny window, though in truth they could see almost nothing of the interior. ‘I bought some straw from the pet shop for the floor,’ Debbie explained, following her mother back to the house, ‘only Mick says poultry likes to perch so he’s rigged up a couple of old yard brooms. They’re wedged in the window frame one side and he’s nailed them in place the other side.’ She beamed up at her mother as they re-entered the kitchen. ‘I telled him he can have the first dozen eggs when the birds start laying,’ she finished.
‘You’ve done marvels,’ Jess said, but her daughter thought she sounded absent-minded. ‘Mind you, if I’d known you were going to buy quite elderly birds – I thought you were getting day-old chicks – then I don’t know as how I’d have said get a dozen.’
‘Mam, I didn’t get a dozen, I only got six,’ Debbie said, feeling hurt. ‘And I did what you telled me; I went round to the Hudsons’ to get advice and Mr Hudson said not to buy day-olds. And when I’d got ’em I could see at a glance that they wouldn’t settle down inside the shed but needed more space. Then Mick came round to see if I’d like to go down the Scottie to the market and he saw the hens – pullets, I mean – and said what they needed was a run. I dare say you couldn’t see much in the dark but he helped me make it, and it’s pretty strong, honest to God. He says it won’t only keep the hens in, it’ll keep cats and such out, so you see, between us we’ve thought of everything. I bought a sack of meal and some grain but I couldn’t leave them in the shed so they’re in the boot cupboard under the sink.’
‘That’s fine; you’ve done very well,’ Jess said, but Debbie thought again that her mind was not on the pullets. ‘Queen, the Fletcher cousins have given me notice, both of them. They’re going to be land girls . . . they made enquiries after an uncle told them that he was looking for girls to replace the farmhands who have joined up. They go at the end of the week.’
‘Gosh!’ Debbie said blankly. She liked all four of their lodgers and had not even considered that the girls might want to leave. ‘What about Barker and Pennymore? But I suppose they’ll stick to what they know ’cos they’re a lot older than the cousins.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ Jess said. ‘I suppose I ought to advertise their room but I don’t think there’s much point. With so many parents either being evacuated with their children or simply having their children’s rooms free, it might be really hard to find lodgers, and we can manage pretty well now that my job is so much better paid.’
‘And I’ll be able to get a job when I leave school, maybe in one of the big factories out at Long Lane,’ Debbie said eagerly. ‘It’ll seem strange without the Fletchers at first, but I’m sure we’ll manage.
By the time spring arrived, however, the Ryans were the only occupants of the house in Wykeham Street. Barker and Pennymore had joined the Queen Alexandra’s Nursing Service and gone off to Southampton to nurse wounded sailors, and though Jess had asked around at the hospital for potential lodgers they were actually short of staff and had rooms to spare in the nurses’ home. However, Debbie now had a job in a large factory, assembling wireless parts, and although she and Jess would be glad of the extra rent money should a lodger come their way, they could manage very well on their joint earnings.
One sunny morning in early May, while mother and daughter sat in the kitchen eating toast before leaving for work, Jess cocked her head at a sound from the hall. ‘Have you nearly finished, queen? Only I reckon that was the post.’
Debbie crammed the last piece of toast into her mouth, jumped to her feet and hurried down the hallway. Sure enough, there were letters on the mat. She scooped them up and returned to the kitchen, remarking as she did so: ‘One is a government thing, probably telling you they’re going to ration something else, then there’s one from Nancy . . .’ she fingered the envelope thoughtfully, ‘not a very thick one this time, it only feels like one sheet. And the last one . . . well, I don’t know who it’s from, but it’s ordinary handwriting, not typewritten.’
Jess took the letters eagerly, opening the government one first. It proved to be a gas bill. The letter from Nancy was quite short and she read it aloud to her daughter.
Dear Jess,I fear you are having a horrid time of it back in dear old England. I told you in my last letter that my eldest son has joined the Royal Air Force and has gone to South Africa to learn to fly war planes – he can already fly the other sort, which has gone a long way to getting him accepted, I imagine. We are all well and wish we could help but there is little we can do, being so far away. I am knitting for victory and buying war bonds, but that is about it. Dear Andy would love to join up but, thank God, they will not accept him; too old, and besides, he’s needed here. As you know, Clive moved to work on another station after his marriage, and with my eldest boy gone all the hard work lands on Andy.I’ve told Pete that if he ever gets to England he must look you up, so if a strange young man comes calling, I know you’ll make him welcome.Take care of yourself, my dear, and of your little girl.Much love,Nancy
Debbie gave a derisive snort as her mother laid the letter down on the table. ‘Little girl! Who does she think she’s calling a little girl?’ she demanded. ‘Doesn’t she know I’m a working woman, bringing in a proper wage? How old is that Pete, anyway?’
Jess laughed. ‘It seems like only yesterday that I was writing to congratulate Nancy on his birth,’ she admitted. ‘I expect it’s the same for her. I sent her a photograph when you started school but that was . . . goodness, nearly ten years ago! And now let’s read the last letter.’
She slit open the envelope, pulled out the single closely written sheet it contained and began to read. After a moment, Debbie said impatiently: ‘Well, go on, Mam, who’s this one from, eh? Looks like there’s a deal more information than your pal Nancy saw fit to purron paper.’
‘It’s from your Uncle Max,’ Jess said joyfully. ‘Well, he isn’t your uncle really because he’s my cousin, not my brother, but we were always close, me and Max.’ She sighed, patting the letter affectionately. ‘He’s ten years older than me but he was awful good with us children, never grudged spending a bit of money to give us a treat, went out of his way to walk us up to school or give us a ride on the ferry. Why, the very first time I went to New Brighton was with Max. I thought the world of him.’
‘Why have you never mentioned him before?’ Debbie asked, surprised. ‘It sounds as though you thought the sun shone out of him, Mam. Did something happen to him?’
‘His wife ran off with a sailor after they’d been married half a dozen years, and has never been heard of since, as far as I know,’ Jess explained. ‘After she left we hardly saw Max any more – I think he were ashamed, felt he’d brought disgrace on the family. He moved down to London, and this is the first time I’ve heard from him since before you were born, though I’ve tried to get in touch with him once or twice. I remember I wrote to him when I started working at the Stanley – that must be how he got this address.’
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