Orphans of the Storm (22 page)
Nancy put down her letter with a satisfied sigh. The thought of Jess managing her little household, cooking the meals, going to and from her chemist’s shop and visiting the cinema filled her with pleasurable nostalgia. She had never known Liverpool well but she could still remember it quite distinctly, the big busy hospital, the cinemas and theatres, the constant bustle in the streets and the huge stores selling every imaginable luxury. Now, her life was very different. Shopping was a rare event and not a particularly pleasant one at that, she thought, remembering the small, fly-ridden stores and the scarcity of almost everything. Oh, they never went short and whatever they ordered – so far at any rate – always arrived in the end, but there was little choice between one brand and another; one simply accepted what one was sent.
Things were getting better, however. Beef was fetching a steady price, and as they grew increasingly prosperous the station owners began to get together more. There was a fortnightly picture show at a cattle station less than eighty miles away and Andy always insisted that they should attend, because it gave him a chance to talk to other cattlemen and he thought it was good for his family to enjoy a film now and then. There were dances, too, invitations to weddings, birthday parties and similar events, and there was wireless, which meant that the stations could keep in touch with one another and call on medical help in an emergency. The radio also broadcast a school session for children and a ‘natter’ hour when anyone who wanted to chat, or listen to others doing so, had the freedom of the airways. Nancy often spoke to her sister Anne during these ‘galah’ sessions, though they were always aware that other ears were listening, drinking in every word.
Now she glanced across at her visitor, then got quietly to her feet and stole off the veranda. The steps creaked, but Bullwhip did not wake. As she was crossing the yard, she saw Aggie coming towards her with her arms full of vegetables, for the women had been hard at work harvesting a bumper crop of sweetcorn. Aggie was heading for the vegetable store but stopped when Nancy called her. ‘Yes’m?’ she said interrogatively. ‘I were just going to put these here cobs in the veggie store.’
‘Good. When you’ve done that, come into the kitchen and give me a hand getting the loaves out,’ Nancy said. She sighed. ‘Then I reckon you’d best fetch Violet from the house – she’s cleaning the bedrooms today – and we’ll start dinner.’
‘Oh, gawd, look at that, will you? When I gorrup this morning the sky were clear, and I were certain the fine weather were goin’ to last. Me mam telled me to take a brolly ’cos she said September were a tricky sort of month. But did I listen? Did I hell as like! So now I’ve gorrer make me way to Bootle in a bleedin’ downpour.’ The speaker, a tall, heavily built girl with frizzy blonde hair combed up into a huge pompadour, turned hopefully towards Debbie and Gwen, as the three of them peered at the driving rain through the open factory door. ‘I ain’t even gorra scarf to keep me ’air dry. Any chance I can borrer something off of you?’
Debbie sighed. Ethel Catnip was the dizziest girl in their department. If she remembered her brolly then she forgot her butties and had to beg or borrow from everyone around her – which, with rationing tightening its grip, was unpopular to say the least. If she remembered her butties, then she forgot her overall and had to borrow one of the spares kept in the department’s cupboard. If she remembered her overall, then she would have put her card back in the wrong slot and would hold up the whole queue whilst she feverishly searched. Nevertheless, she was well liked because she was generous and hard-working and sympathised with the woes of others, having so many herself.
So Debbie turned to Gwen. ‘If I lend my brolly to Ethel, can I share yours? I’ll walk with you to Ogden’s and then hang on to it until I get home, if that’s all right?’
‘Sure,’ Gwen said readily. She erected her umbrella and the two girls huddled beneath it whilst Ethel beamed her thanks and turned to Debbie. ‘I’ll bring it back tomorrer, honest to God I will, queen. And if me mam’s baked them oatmeal biscuits you liked I’ll bring you a couple, sangwiched together with margarine and a bit o’ jam.’
Debbie laughed. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said. ‘Only I would like the brolly back. They’re scarce as flippin’ hens’ teeth and I reckon I’ll need it once the winter comes.’
Ethel promised fervently that this time she would not forget and the girls splashed through the downpour to the nearest tram stop, squeezing on to the first vehicle to come along. It was a No. 36 which would take them all the way home, though there was no opportunity to talk since the racket made by other passengers rendered conversation impossible.
When they neared their destination, Debbie reminded Ethel that she had boarded the tram complete with umbrella, since she had seen the other girl shove it down beside her seat. However, when they disembarked on Commercial Road, leaving Ethel aboard, she made the thumbs up sign and Debbie presumed from this that their scatterbrained friend had retrieved the umbrella, though the rain was beginning to ease.
‘Mam had an interview at the Stanley yesterday,’ Debbie told Gwen as the two of them set off towards Ogden’s. ‘She was offered the job and she told me she was really happy to accept because she had felt guilty because of the shortage of nurses . . . working in the chemist’s shop is all very well but I think she secretly felt she was wasting her training when she could be using it to help the war effort.’
‘So what about the chemist’s, left in the lurch without a manager?’ Gwen said rather plaintively.
Debbie grinned; she suspected her friend was thinking of the advance warning they had been given when make-up or scented soap came into the chemist’s shop. However, it would not do to say so. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Because of the war, Mr Jarvis has come out of retirement. The new pharmacist was called up, you know, and the shop isn’t as busy as it was, what with shortages and everything. He was ever so apologetic but he explained that he couldn’t pay a manager and work himself, so Mam could either stay there as an ordinary shop assistant, or find something else. Well, Matron had actually visited the shop and had told Mam that, should she wish to return to the wards, she would be employed at once with the salary of a senior staff nurse. She and Uncle Max had talked it over – he wanted Mam to take Horrible Herbert in as a second lodger to make up for the drop in wages, but she said she’d rather be a nurse, doing important work for which she had been trained, because anyone can be a landlady.’
‘With all three of you earning so much you should do all right,’ Gwen said. ‘In fact I suppose you could even manage without your uncle’s contribution.’ She glanced slyly at her friend but though Debbie laughed, she shook her head.
‘It wouldn’t be that easy; I know we earn a lot but prices have gone up, so I suppose I’ll have to put up with the nasty old brute for a while longer.’
‘But you’ve got used to him now, haven’t you? I believe you quite like him,’ Gwen said, pushing open her yard gate. She handed her umbrella to her friend. ‘Don’t forget now, bring me brolly in tomorrow even if the sun’s cracking the pavin’ stones.’
Debbie assured her that her umbrella would be restored to her next day, and did not add that her feelings for Uncle Max remained obstinately the same. She did her best to hide it, but the touch of his hand made her flesh creep and she tried to avoid him whenever she could. No use telling Gwen, though; Gwen was completely taken in by Uncle Max’s generosity and jolly ways, as were a good many others.
Now, Debbie saw Gwen into the kitchen and then turned and retraced her steps. She wondered whether her mother would be working shifts. Whilst Jess had worked at the chemist’s, she had always been the first to get home in the evening, so that Debbie and Max came back to a warm house which smelled deliciously of baking bread, or pies, or a nice scouse. If her mother worked shifts, then it might be she, Debbie, who prepared the evening meal and did a number of chores. Suddenly, she realised that she and Uncle Max would be the sole occupants of the house until her mother returned and this thought really horrified her. She could imagine all too clearly the groping and grabbing which would result, and wondered how she could convey her fears to her mother without upsetting her. There was a war on, after all. Uncle Max was her own problem and she must, she supposed, learn to deal with him without troubling Jess too much.
She splashed round the corner into Wykeham Street, hurried along the jigger and across the yard, and entered the kitchen. Her mother was stirring a large pan of what smelt like scouse, and turned to beam at her daughter. ‘Mr Jarvis has been awfully good. He’s paying me up to the end of the week but he said not to come in because he can manage. So I start work on Women’s Surgical at eight o’clock on Monday morning. I’m going over tomorrow to be fitted for my uniform and I shall be working with Sister McPherson, who was plain old Staff Nurse Dolly McPherson when I worked there last. I’m jolly glad now that I kept up my friendship with her because I shall need to take things slowly at first. Things will have moved on since I left, but Dolly will see I don’t make any bad mistakes.’
‘Oh, Mam, I’m so glad for you,’ Debbie said. She hesitated, and then said, ‘But what about the shift system? Will you be working nights? Only I don’t know that I fancy being alone in the house with Uncle Max whilst you’re away.’
Jess stared at her. ‘I’ve told you before, love, that Uncle Max doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just . . . friendly. But as it happens, I warned Matron that I didn’t want to do nights – I’m a fire-watcher, after all – and she said that was all right. I’ll probably be working eight till six, mostly, which is similar to my hours at Jarvis’s.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Debbie said, considerably relieved. Her own work finished at six, but Long Lane was a good way off so she was unlikely to be in first, though past experience told her there would undoubtedly be occasions when Jess would work a double shift, or be called to another ward to fill in for somebody else. Aloud, she said: ‘That’s all right then. But, Mam, if you are likely to be away from the house at night, I’ll ask Mrs Soames if I can share with Gwen – or she can come home and share with me. I’d rather do that if you don’t mind.’
Jess began to speak, then stopped and shook her head ruefully. ‘You’re right, of course. Emergencies do arise, particularly in wartime. And tongues wag, and gossips gossip, so I reckon you’re right and I’ll do my best to give you plenty of warning if I’m working over. But you’ll make Uncle Max’s evening meal before you flit off, I trust?’
Debbie was glad that her mother had not taken offence. ‘Of course I will; and I’ll come down first thing to get his breakfast and polish his bleedin’ shoes,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And with you working full time at the hospital, at least we won’t have to have Horrible Herbert lodging with us.’
‘Sshhhh; your Uncle Max is upstairs having a wash,’ her mother said. ‘I’m afraid he – he’s sulking.’
‘Sulking? Why?’ Debbie asked, puzzled. Uncle Max had many faults – many, many faults – but sulking was not usually one of them.
‘He isn’t too pleased that I’ll be working at the hospital full time,’ Jess said vaguely, picking up a fork and stabbing a potato with it. ‘Yes, these are done and the table’s laid, so if you’ll just run your hands under the tap, you’d best call Uncle Max. The thing is, he thinks that my working as a nurse might well be inconvenient for him because I couldn’t guarantee I’d be here to cook his evening meal. I pointed out that nurses were desperately needed and he said so were good landladies . . . I could have smacked him!’
Debbie giggled. ‘Is he upstairs packing?’ she asked hopefully, but though Jess laughed, a little self-consciously, she shook her head.
‘No, no, he wasn’t unreasonable when I explained how important it was for me to get back to the work I know and love,’ she said earnestly. Footsteps began to descend the stairs, and she raised her voice. ‘So I bought two pounds of cooking apples and I’ve made an apple tart, and apple pudding, and . . .’ The door’s opening cut the sentence short and both mother and daughter turned and smiled as Max entered the room. ‘Ah, here you are, Max; then we’ll dish up at once,’ Jess said. ‘Three potatoes or four, Max?’
Debbie, the Soameses and the rest of the occupants of the underground shelter made their way up the steps and into the crisp cold of the December morning. They had been below ground for many hours whilst mayhem raged outside, for it seemed that the Luftwaffe had got into their stride at last. Debbie glanced round her anxiously, expecting to see ruined buildings on every side, but despite the fearful din the only sign of bomb damage came when she turned to look towards the docks. They had been hit all right; she could see flames, gaps where warehouses had once stood, and a thick pall of black smoke overhanging the area.
‘Cor, wharra night, eh?’ Gwen said, following her friend’s gaze. ‘Your mam was working, wasn’t she, and since I can see the Stanley from here and it don’t look damaged, I dare say she’s safe and sound. Want to come back to Daisy Street for a spot of breakfast? Only bombs or no bombs, I’ve gorrer do me Christmas shopping today or the kids won’t have so much as a cracker to pull.’
‘Thanks, Gwen, but I’ll have to go home. Uncle Max was fire-watching and, as you say, Mam was working on the wards, so the least I can do is cook breakfast for them. But I’ll come round to yours as soon as I’ve done that and we’ll do our shopping – if there are any shops left standing, that is, and anything left to buy in them,’ she finished grimly.
‘Fair enough,’ Gwen said cheerfully, turning to help heave Mrs Soames up the concrete steps. The older woman had put on a good deal of weight since the war started and blamed rationing, since she said she now had to fill up the chinks with bread and potatoes. ‘Will you come round to Daisy Street or shall I come over to Wykeham?’
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