Orphans of the Storm (34 page)
Pete stared at her for a moment, his eyes hard, then they softened. ‘I believe you,’ he said, almost grudgingly. ‘But I want a promise from you: you’ll write to me in the next couple of days telling me what you’ve done and how successful or unsuccessful you’ve been. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but I can tell that you’re very fond of the baby and don’t want to be parted from it. Only, if the mother really is alive, that would be kidnap, do you understand? Theft, in other words. You could be sent to prison, and when I saw your mother I promised I’d look after you. So . . . will you promise?’
Debbie agreed. ‘All right, but it may take me more than a couple of days,’ she warned him. ‘And I never asked you—’ She broke off as Pete suddenly lurched to his feet.
‘Oh my God, look at the time,’ he said, waving his wristwatch under Debbie’s nose. ‘I’m gasping for a cup of tea, but unless I hurry I’ll never get to the train.’
Debbie glanced towards the cot; the baby was stirring and murmuring, so whilst Pete thundered down the stairs she lifted the child from amongst its blankets and held it against her face, kissing the petal-soft cheek as she did so. ‘I’m going to have to find your mam, if she’s still alive, little Baby,’ she murmured, as she descended the stairs. ‘Pete was rather unkind but I suppose he’s quite right; your mam must be desperate with worry and longing to see you again, and though I’d much rather keep you all to myself, it would be very wrong of me to do so.’
Entering the kitchen, she saw Pete gulping desperately at a hot cup of tea whilst Mrs Roberts wrapped four newly buttered scones in a piece of greaseproof paper and pushed them into his coat pocket. ‘You can eat them on the train,’ she said, as he began to thank her. ‘And don’t you fret, I’ll take care of these little girls for you.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Roberts,’ Pete said gratefully. He picked up his kitbag and slung it over one shoulder, wagging an admonitory finger at Debbie as he did so. ‘Debbie is looking after the baby for a friend,’ he said rapidly. ‘She’ll explain . . . oh, hell, I dare not miss this train.’ Quickly, he crossed the kitchen, put his arms round Debbie and kissed her cheek. ‘Take care of yourself and don’t forget you promised to write,’ he said softly. ‘And don’t worry; everything will come right in the end, you’ll see.’
Watching him disappear out of the door at a run, Debbie clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘Drat,’ she said. ‘I still haven’t asked him how he came to visit my mam in hospital. And I’ve just realised he never gave me his address.’
Pete spent most of the cross-country journey thinking about Debbie. He had been angry with her because she had lied to him and because she had told the rescue worker that he had fathered the child, but now he felt quite ashamed. Poor kid, she had been in a pretty desperate situation, now he had leisure to consider it. All she was doing was trying to keep something for herself, and that was understandable when you thought how much she had lost: her mother, her best friend, her home and pretty well all her possessions. There was that lodger as well, Uncle Max she called him. This time the anger he felt was not turned on Debbie but on the unknown relation. Nasty old man, trying to take advantage of a pretty young girl, just because they lived under the same roof! Well, at least that was one thing she would not have to worry about whilst she lived with Mrs Roberts. He had paid the landlady the rent of the room for two weeks because that was all the money he had on him, but he had made it clear that he would get a money order to her for every additional week that Debbie spent under her roof. Flying officers were not paid enormous salaries, but he knew he could rely on his mother to help him somehow, if he told her he needed it.
Sitting in the train – or rather sitting on his kitbag in the corridor of the train – he realised that he felt responsible for Debbie. She was so young, so brave and so very alone. What was more, she was living in a city – a sea port – which had been under constant enemy attack; she had already been buried alive for the best part of twenty-four hours, had been the only survivor of that particular tragedy. She could easily be killed or badly wounded . . . he had to stay in touch to know what was happening. But she’s got her job, he reminded himself, and she said it was well paid, so she had no intention of leaving it. And I’ve paid the rent for the next two weeks; if necessary, I’ll go on paying. Then it occurred to him that he himself could easily be killed, because aircraft were constantly being shot down. If that happened, how could he continue to protect her, make sure she did not want? He decided he must make a Will, leaving the money he had in the bank to Debbie Ryan, and write to his mother to say that he wanted his share of the Walleroo to go to her friend Jess’s child should he be killed. After all, the bond between the two women, Nancy and Jess, had been strong enough to withstand the long separation, the distance between them, and their very different lives. He was sure his mother would be as keen as he to see that Jess’s daughter did not starve. Having decided how best to help Debbie, he settled back on his uncomfortable perch and began to try to think about the Walleroo, imagining his father mustering the cattle astride his favourite mount, a tall roan with black mane and tail which answered to the unlikely name of Taffy. He knew that this was one of the best times of the year, when the wet had made the country productive and the drought had not yet dried up all the streams and lagoons. Crops would be growing well and the cattle would be fat and sleek.
He thought of the homestead, of his ma’s flower garden, and wondered, with an inward smile, what she would think of the little gardens he could see from the window of the train where, at the government’s request, housewives had replaced petunias and marigolds, delphiniums and geraniums, with potatoes, carrots and onions. He could imagine Nancy’s quick glance towards the acres of productive land which she, and many other members of the staff, planted, weeded and harvested yearly. No need to sacrifice your blooms in a country like Australia, where there was more virgin land than the inhabitants could possibly cultivate.
Still smiling to himself, he pictured his mother as he had last seen her, waving him off at the station, her primrose-fair hair pulled back from her face, her lovely blue eyes tear-filled, though her mouth was smiling. And then, suddenly, he realised that he was seeing, not his mother’s face, but Debbie’s, framed with smooth and shiny chestnut hair. He could see the beautiful shape of the winged eyebrows, the sweep of dark lashes on her cheek, the steady regard of her dark blue eyes. Every detail of her small face, from broad brow to pointed, determined chin, was as clear in his mind as though he had known her for months instead of hours. Those hours had not been spent in quiet amity either, he mused. He had got extremely cross with her, had been furious when she had pretended that the child was his. His anger had melted, however, when she had explained why she had lied, and fortunately neither was the type to bear a grudge. She had waved him off merrily, had thanked him very prettily for all the help he had given her, and despite the terrible experiences through which she had lived had been careful not to show him a perpetually sad face. Yes, she was a nice girl, he told himself, and that made him think of his mother’s desire for a daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Pete grinned at the recollection. He had met plenty of girls – nice girls too – since joining the Royal Air Force, but he realised, with a small stab of shock, that none of them had made as good an impression upon him as Debbie. She was only a kid, far too young for him really, but she had courage and humour and tenacity; she would not give the baby up to an orphanage, he was suddenly sure of it, and instead of being angry he realised he admired her for it. She loved and needed Baby all right, but her main anxiety was for the child’s happiness and well-being. Yes, Debbie wasn’t just a pretty girl, she had character, which was even more important.
Sitting on his kitbag, going over the events of the last couple of days, he had almost nodded off to sleep when he suddenly remembered that he had never actually told her that he was Nancy’s son and had come to Liverpool expressly to see the Ryans. But surely she would put two and two together? He could not remember whether he had ever mentioned his surname, but she must have recognised his Australian accent, surely? Though that ARP warden hadn’t . . . But then he recollected her promise to write. He would write back and tell her everything, and, in the meantime, would listen with added interest to the wireless and read the newspapers with more attention than he had previously given them. And next time he visited Liverpool . . .
The train jerked to a stop and a porter’s voice came echoing along the corridor. ‘All change, all change.’
Pete got wearily to his feet and headed for the station platform. Another bloody hold-up, he thought savagely; he’d be lucky if he reached the station before midnight.
At about the same time that Pete was changing trains, Mrs Roberts was serving an excellent meal of macaroni cheese, mashed potatoes and spring greens to her lodger. ‘Your young man will be well on his way by now,’ she said, heaping food on to Debbie’s plate. ‘When he first come here, I thought he were from Birmingham . . . from his voice, you know. Then I thought London, ’cos he sounded a bit like one of them cockneys.’ She gazed inquisitively across at Debbie. ‘Am I right?’
‘I dunno,’ Debbie said truthfully. ‘I only met him yesterday . . . he knew my mum, not me.’
‘Oh, well,’ Mrs Roberts said. ‘What was he sayin’ about the baby?’
‘I’m looking after her for a friend who – who should be back in the city to pick her up in a day or two,’ Debbie said, improvising rapidly. ‘She were left with me and Mam while Mrs – Mrs Elliot went to visit her other kids, who’ve been evacuated. So she won’t be with me for long.’ Even as she said the words, Debbie was making up her mind; if she didn’t find Baby’s mum then she would move out, take other digs, but she would not abandon her to an orphanage.
‘I see,’ Mrs Roberts said. ‘Cabbage, m’dear?’
Debbie began her search for the baby’s mother the very next day, when she went along to the centre to see what help could be given her. It was very busy, with crowds waiting to be attended to, but she was given a pile of nappies and a couple of dresses and cardigans for the baby, and some underwear for herself. She was also presented with emergency ration cards, having given the baby’s name as Ryan, though she crossed her fingers whilst doing so and was glad everyone was too busy to ask for other particulars. Because of the lengthy queues it was mid-afternoon before she made her way back to the area of Scotland Road where she and the baby had met in the shelter. Surely someone round here would be able to help her to trace the baby’s mother, if she were still alive?
As she walked along the Scotland Road, Debbie was horrified anew by the extent of the destruction. Paddy’s Market and the Metropole, to say nothing of scores of small shops and dwellings, had been razed to the ground, though when Debbie enquired of a passing woman she was told that there had been fewer deaths than one might suppose. ‘This here trekking they’re talking about was getting to everyone after seven nights without sleep,’ she said heavily, glancing curiously at the baby on Debbie’s hip. ‘I took off meself wi’ most o’ the ’habitants of Lavender Court. We didn’t care where we went so long as we could get a good night’s sleep an’ still be alive in the mornin’. So we trekked off to Crosby.’ She chuckled richly, but Debbie could see the strain in her eyes. ‘Much sleep we got! We was fire-bombed from midnight till nigh on three in the morning, but at least when daylight come we were still alive. Our side of the court were flattened, norra dwellin’ standin’, so you see we done right to gerrout, wharrever them fellers in the government say.’
‘I’m glad, and I’m sure you did do the right thing,’ Debbie said sincerely. She noticed that the woman was still eyeing Baby and realised suddenly that asking about the baby’s mother might be dangerous. If Debbie asked the wrong person, someone would realise that the baby was not hers.
She made to move away but was forestalled. ‘That your baby?’ the woman enquired. ‘I dare say all babies look alike to some but me, I’m different. I never had none o’ me own, you see, though hubby and me would ha’ liked a fambly. So when the old lady opposite took in a young gal wi’ a little new ’un, I took a bit of an interest, like. And that ’un . . .’ she jerked a thumb towards the baby, ‘looks awful like Clodagh. Outlandish name, but then you can trust the Irish for that.’
Debbie could feel a smile begin to creep across her face. What a piece of luck! She might have searched the entire city of Liverpool without finding anyone who recognised the baby, yet she had chanced upon this woman on the very first day of her search. ‘Was – was the lady who lived opposite you sort of gypsyish-looking?’ she enquired eagerly.
Once again, the older woman chuckled. ‘That’s her; Mrs O’Shea,’ she said, nodding. ‘Her house is still standing, though I doubt there’s a pane of glass in the place; number four it is.’
‘Number four Lavender Court,’ Debbie said, memorising it. ‘I’ll go there at once.’
‘Well, you might not find the old gal at home since she didn’t come out to Crosby with the rest of us,’ the old woman said. She glanced slyly at Debbie. ‘But young Biddy will be in, likely. She – she works nights, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ Debbie said, rather awkwardly. ‘Can you point Lavender Court out to me, please?’
‘It’s off Lawrence Street, second court along,’ the woman said at once. ‘Lawrence Street goes through to Cazneau so it’s a right handy place to live. You goin’ to look for young Biddy?’
‘Yes,’ Debbie said. ‘What did you say her surname was?’
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