Through the Storm (48 page)

‘It’s a war of figures,’ he said to Jack Doyle. It was Saturday and Jack had just arrived home from a day spent in his daughter’s garden in Melling. A row of green tomatoes stood on the window ledge inside his living room to ripen in the sunshine. ‘When I left school, nearly every lad in the class went into the Merchant Navy. Now, I’m the only one still alive. It’ll be little short of a miracle if I’m here by the time this lot’s over.’

‘Miracles can happen, lad,’ his father-in-law grunted.

‘If the worst comes to the worst, you’ll look after Sheila and the kids for me, won’t you, Jack? There’ll be another kid in January. Sheila’s convinced it’s going to be a boy.’ Cal felt as if he were living on borrowed time; that one day, very soon, death was inevitable. Since coming home, he kept looking round for things to do in the house to make it easier for Sheila when he was gone. He’d put an extra shelf up in the cupboard under the stairs and given the yard a fresh coat of whitewash.

‘You don’t have to worry, lad,’ Jack said gruffly.

‘Sheila will never go short while I’m alive. There’s years more work in me. Your kids’ll be old enough for work theirselves by the time I’m ready to give up.’

‘Thanks, Jack.’ Cal laughed shortly. ‘Let’s hope you don’t end up with your Eileen and Nicky on your hands, as well. Nick’s got an even more dangerous job than me.’ Whilst Cal risked his life in the seas around Russia, Nick Stephens flew the perilous skies. He’d only met Nick once, at his and Eileen’s wedding. He’d liked him. In the normal course of events, they would have become great mates. But you could no longer look forward to events in the future, simple things like getting to know your sister-in-law’s husband and going for a drink together after Mass on Sundays. Over the last few weeks, as his ship had sailed through the chill and unfriendly waters of the Barents Sea and the convoy around them rapidly diminished, the crew had begun to wonder if it was worth looking forward to their next meal.

Jack was staring into the fire. ‘Nick’s coming home,’ he said slowly. ‘Eileen only got the letter yesterday. He’s been invalided out of the RAF.’

‘What happened to him?’ Cal prayed Nick hadn’t been burnt. He’d heard of a chap who’d had his entire face destroyed when his plane crashed.

‘The letter didn’t say.’

‘Jaysus!’ whispered Cal. ‘I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad.’

‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we,’ Jack sighed.

While Cal was home, one good thing happened to cheer him. Across the street in the front bedroom of number 5, little Alice Doyle gave birth to her first baby, a boy weighing five pounds, three ounces. To her delight, the baby, who she decided to call Edward after her long-deceased father, was the image of his dad, a tiny
jewel
of a baby with a mop of jet black hair and already a hint of Sean’s roguish charm.

‘Isn’t he the gear?’ Alice said tearfully to her brothers and sisters who had collected proudly around the bed. ‘Oh, if only Sean was here to see him! Still, I’m lucky, not like some women. At least I know he’s safe and sound.’ She kissed the baby’s head. His hair felt like thick silk and he waved his fists around like a boxer. ‘In fact, I’m the luckiest woman on earth. I never dreamt I’d end up married to Sean Doyle, who always had a stream of girls after him. And, if that weren’t enough, we’re living in a palace. I can’t wait to go downstairs and make sure the electric stove’s really there: sometimes I think I’ve just imagined it – an electric stove and a bathroom of our own! Even when I used to take in laundry from those dead posh houses along Merton Road, I never came across a woman with an electric stove.’

There was as yet no furniture in the parlour, and the stuff in the living room had seen many better days before it reached the Scullys’ old place in Miller’s Bridge and been moved on a handcart to Pearl Street, but Alice was used to poverty and couldn’t possibly have been happier.

‘Colette,’ she said to her sister, ‘go downstairs and make sure the stove’s all right. I should be back on me feet by this time tomorrow, so I can keep an eye on it meself.’

Jimmy Quigley had been unable to pinpoint the location of the stream where Frank Beamish used to take his sons fishing. Neither lad could remember what number bus they caught, nor what direction they took once they were on it.

‘There’s a nice stream runs alongside the factory in Melling where our Eileen used to work,’ Sheila Reilly told him. ‘I’ve seen kids fishing there.’

‘Me dad used to bring a bottle of lemonade and some
sarnies
,’ said Georgie when Jimmy confirmed his intention of taking them fishing on Saturday afternoon.

‘We’ll do things exactly the same as you did them with your dad, don’t worry,’ Jimmy assured him firmly. He couldn’t remember when he last spent a day out in the country, and it seemed an entirely different world altogether when they got off the bus beside a little humpbacked bridge beneath which the crystal clear water gurgled merrily. The scenery was slightly spoilt by the giant munitions factory, so they strolled along the stream until they were surrounded by fields and the factory could only be seen in the distance. It was a lovely day, but then it had been a lovely summer so far, with scarcely any rain to speak of.

The boys took their shoes and socks off and had a fine time with the fishing nets – Jimmy had walked the length and breadth of Bootle until he’d found a shop which stocked them. After a while, he got bored. ‘Is it all right if I read me paper?’ he asked the lads. He was anxious not to do anything their dad wouldn’t have done. He didn’t want them to think, even though they would have been right, that he wasn’t terribly interested in fishing.

‘Yeah, our dad used to bring a book.’

Jimmy decided he would probably have liked Frank Beamish. ‘Much better than I like his bloody wife,’ he thought, grinning to himself, though there wasn’t much to grin at. The situation with Theresa was more tragic than funny. She either didn’t care or hadn’t noticed he’d decided to put his foot down over the lads. In fact, nowadays they hardly ever spoke to each other, and the other day she’d cursorily suggested he might as well use Kitty’s bedroom seeing as it was empty. When Jimmy tried to have it out with her and asked what was wrong, she looked at him in sluggish surprise. ‘What do you mean, what’s wrong? There’s nowt wrong as far as I know.’

‘I’ll never get through to her,’ Jimmy muttered aloud. ‘Never!’

‘I’ve caught a goldfish, Uncle Jimmy,’ Billy yelled in triumph.

‘Don’t keep it if it’s too big. It’ll only die in a jar.’ Jimmy felt pleased that a barrier had just been crossed. He’d suggested the lads call him ‘uncle’, and this was the first time one had done so.

‘Our dad wouldn’t let us keep the big ’uns.’

It was gone six by the time they arrived back in Pearl Street. Georgie and Billy had caught the sun, as well as several tiddlers, and looked happy and contented. ‘Can we go fishing again next week, Uncle Jimmy?’ Georgie asked eagerly.

‘As long as it’s not raining.’

‘Our dad used to take us in the rain. We even went once in the snow.’

Jimmy gritted his teeth. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll still go, even if it’s raining.’

It was another fine day several weeks later when Jimmy took his stepsons fishing. They didn’t appear to mind if he disappeared into the alehouse by the bridge for a pint or two while they played with their nets in the water.

He was making his way back, pleasantly full of ale, when he noticed a young man in RAF uniform sitting on the bank on the other side of the little stream opposite the factory. The chap was in a daydream, shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on something invisible to Jimmy. There was something odd about him that Jimmy couldn’t quite make out at first. When he got closer, he saw the young man only had one arm. The left had gone and the sleeve was neatly pinned in half and dangled loosely.

Jimmy couldn’t bring himself just to walk past without a word, yet the young man seemed entirely unaware of his presence. When he was directly
opposite
, Jimmy paused and said conversationally, ‘Penny for ’em, mate!’

The chap nearly jumped out of his skin. He was a fine-looking young fellow with dark curly hair, rich brown eyes and a pleasant, open face. ‘S-sorry,’ he stammered. ‘You startled me.’

‘It’s me that should be sorry,’ Jimmy said abjectly. ‘I should have crept past and left you to your thoughts.’ He nodded at the missing arm. ‘What happened?’

The young lad looked at his empty sleeve with an air of slight surprise, as if he wasn’t quite used to the arm not being there. Jimmy guessed it wasn’t long since the accident had happened. ‘My plane crash-landed. The navigator was killed. I suppose I was lucky to get out alive.’

‘I don’t suppose you feel all that lucky?’

The chap smiled sardonically. ‘Not yet.’

Jimmy sat down on the bank and took out a packet of Woodbines. There were only two left. ‘Fancy a ciggie?’ he offered. ‘I’ll throw them over.’

‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’

‘Don’t blame you, mate. They’re heavy on the pocket.’

‘They’re also bad for you,’ the young man said severely. ‘My wife used to smoke. She gave up not long before I went away. I often wondered if she took it up again.’

‘Well, you’ll soon find out. Are you on your way home now?’ The question was scarcely out of his mouth when Jimmy realised it was a stupid thing to ask. If he was on his way home, then he wouldn’t be sitting on the bank opposite, staring into space, and looking as if going home was the last thing on his mind.

The man’s dark eyes clouded with misery and an expression of utter wretchedness came over his young face. Then, as if everything had been boiling up inside him, the words came tumbling out. ‘To tell the truth,
I’m
scared to go home. I asked to be dropped off here. This is where I met my wife. I was sitting in this very spot when she came out of the door over there and knelt by the water to splash her face. She looked like a mermaid. You’ve no idea what we went through before we could be married …’ He stopped and looked at Jimmy appealingly. ‘What will she think when she sees me like this?’ He gestured at his missing arm. ‘She’ll have to cut my food in pieces for me, help me dress. I won’t be able to pick my baby son up – Nicky was only hours old when I last saw him. I can’t work in the garden or do things around the house.’ He was on the verge of tears. ‘Christ! I’ll be less than useless.’

‘I think you’re exaggerating a bit,’ Jimmy said gruffly. An emotional man, he was close to tears himself. ‘You’ll soon learn to do all sorts of things on your own. I reckon you’ll soon be nifty with just one arm. As for your missus, if I were you, I’d be off like a shot. I bet she’d have a fit if she knew you were here. Is she expecting you?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’m not even sure if she knows about … about this!’ He shrugged his left shoulder hopelessly.

‘Do you live far?’

‘Just along the road.’

‘Uncle Jimmy! Uncle Jimmy!’ Georgie and Billy came running up and stared at Jimmy accusingly. ‘You’ve been gone for ages. Did you forget about us?’

Jimmy stood up and put his arms around his boys. ‘Just as if! I’ve been talking to this young feller for a while, that’s all.’

The lads transferred their gaze across the stream. They stared at the figure in his blue-grey uniform with a certain amount of awe.

‘Where’s your arm?’ demanded Billy.

‘Shush, lad,’ Jimmy cautioned.

The young man smiled. ‘That’s all right. My arm went up in smoke along with my Mosquito.’

‘Are you a hero?’

‘Of course not! I’m just a …’

‘Yes, he is,’ Jimmy broke in huskily. ‘He’s a hero, and he’s about to go home to his missus.’ He stared at the young man challengingly. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, son?’

‘I suppose so.’ The man sighed as he eased himself awkwardly to his feet. He was about to walk away, when he stopped and said, embarrassed, ‘I hope you didn’t mind me coming out with all that guff? I’m not sure what came over me.’

‘What guff?’ Jimmy nodded sternly in the direction of the bridge. ‘Go on, you’re losing time.’

‘Cheerio – and thanks!’

‘
Is
he a hero?’ Georgie asked when the young man had disappeared.

‘He certainly is,’ said Jimmy.

Kitty was having a wild old time. She was scarcely ever in. She would go dancing straight from the hospital and, sometimes, it was well gone midnight by the time she arrived home. Occasionally, she’d had too much to drink and her eyes shone with an unnatural brightness.

‘It was the gear,’ she’d breathe ecstatically when Jessica asked if she’d enjoyed herself. She’d started to use make-up, far too much, and her hollow cheeks were rouged, her lashes stiff with mascara. ‘I danced every dance, but then I always do.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ She looked beautiful, but in Jessica’s eyes her painted face was a picture of pathos as she put every waking minute into the effort of forgetting Dale Tooley.

Dale still wrote, but perhaps he was losing heart as his letters went unanswered, because they were growing fewer. Other letters came, though. Kitty heard from Harriet Mansell, who was working in a hospital in
America
.
It’s for black people only. I love it. I feel I’m doing something truly worthwhile. I was a useless auxiliary
. She hoped Kitty was happy.
You deserve to be, Kitty dear. You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever known
.

Kitty cried openly over the letter. ‘Happy! I couldn’t possibly be less happy. And I’m not sweet, either, not any more. From now on, I’m going to be as hard as nails. Never again will I let a man do to me what Dale did.’

‘They’re not all like that, love,’ Jessica tried to convince her.

‘Aren’t they?’ Kitty cried scornfully. ‘Huh! I won’t wait to find out. As soon as one seems serious, I’ll ditch him.’

She never gave anyone the opportunity to get serious. She had a good time at the dances, teasing her partners to distraction and letting them buy drinks all night if there was a bar, but she always left alone. After her experience with Stan Taylor, she decided to keep her body to herself from now on. Even the thought of being kissed was intolerable.