The September Girls (24 page)

‘Any minute now,’ Tyrone said tiredly as he helped himself to a second dumpling, ‘me call-up papers will arrive. I can’t wait to get in the forces.’

‘I know, lad.’ Mam patted his hand comfortingly. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Maria and the lads, so there’ll be no need to worry about them.’

Tyrone sniffed pathetically and said in a namby-pamby voice, ‘I know you will, Mam.’

Mam went to fetch the rice pudding and let Tyrone have the skin off the top. Cara and Fergus gave each other a secret grin. Afterwards, Mam went to wash the dishes - Cara would dry them later - and Dad offered to take the lads to the pub. Tyrone accepted, but Fergus said he’d sooner read a book and went upstairs.

‘If anyone calls for me,’ Dad said, ‘tell them to come round to the Bakers’ Arms, I’ll be there till half past seven, or put them in the parlour to wait.’

‘All right, darlin’,’ Mam promised.

All of a sudden, the house was quiet. Cara stayed at the table with a second cup of tea, the reflection of the sun in the windows of the houses behind almost blinding in its intensity, making her blink. It only happened at this time of the year when the days were at their longest. It came to her how much she would miss her family if - when - she left. She hadn’t thought about it before and the feeling was so raw that it almost took her breath away. It would be unbearable, not seeing Mam and Dad every single day, not eating meals in this room that was as familiar to her as the back of her hand, sleeping in the box room in Uncle Paddy’s bed. Mam had let her pick the wallpaper - blue with pink roses - and Nancy Gates had sewn the blue curtains and another curtain to fit over the wooden frame that Dad had made for a wardrobe.

She stared at the mantelpiece, at the little statue of a lady in a crinoline with a lacy parasol over her shoulder. Mam continually moved it around the house: it was her favourite ornament, Cara’s too. She’d wanted to play with it when she was a little girl, but had never been allowed to touch it. ‘That’s real china, that,’ Mam used to laugh. It was years before Cara realized it was a cheap thing that had been bought for coppers in a second-hand shop. She took the statue off the mantelpiece and nursed it in her hand, unable to imagine life without this almost worthless object somewhere close at hand.

‘Mam!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Mam! I’ve made a terrible mistake.’

Her mother appeared in the doorway, her pinny back on and suds up to her elbows, looking concerned. ‘What’s the matter, darlin’?’

‘I wish I hadn’t joined up! Will I be able to back out of it, d’you think?’

‘I expect so, but why would you want to do that, Cara?’ Mam sat beside her and put her wet arm around her neck.

Cara buried her face in her mother’s ample bosom. ‘I’m frightened, Mam. I don’t want to leave home.’ She expected her mother would be relieved, but she was wrong.

‘You’ll get over it, darlin’. Just give yourself a couple of days and you’ll be looking forward to it again.’

‘I thought you wanted me to stay!’

‘Oh, my dear, lovely girl,’ Mam breathed, ‘’course I want you to stay. I want you to stay with all me heart, but that’s just me, being selfish as usual. You’re nearly nineteen and have your own life to lead. I’ve no right to stop you, have I?’

‘You’re never selfish, Mam.’

‘Indeed I am, darlin’. I’d’ve liked you and Fergus and Tyrone to stay in this house for ever with me and your dad, for us never to grow old, but just be one big happy family till the end of time.’ She stroked Cara’s cheek and Cara felt her lips brush the top of her head. ‘I can’t think of anything that would have made me happier. But it wouldn’t have made
you
three happy, would it? You’ve got lots of years ahead of you, darlin’, and you’re going to have a wonderful time. What’s this?’ She’d noticed the little statue in Cara’s hand.

‘I used to love her when I was little,’ Cara sniffed, ‘but you’d never let me play with her.’

‘She’s one of the first ornaments I ever bought for the house: I was so proud of her.’ She folded Cara’s fingers around the statue. ‘Take her with you, darlin’. You never know, she might enjoy going travelling with you. Now, do us a favour: go upstairs and persuade that brother of yours to take you to the pictures. I’m fed up with him lying upstairs night after night pretending to read, when all he’s really doing is wishing he could go in the forces. Edward G. Robinson’s on at the Gaumont in
The Last Gangster
: he’s an ugly little bugger, but I always quite fancied him. In fact,’ she said impulsively, untying her apron, ‘I wouldn’t mind going meself. I’ll leave a note for your dad. C’mon, darling, rouse your brother and we’ll be off.’

 

It was almost half past seven and Sybil was still out. Marcus drummed his fingers on the desk and a coldness settled over him: she’d turned against him. It had happened while she was at school in London where she’d changed from a young girl into a young lady. Each time she’d come home on holiday, she’d been more withdrawn: not from Nancy, or from Eleanor, the mother who’d deserted her, or from her friends, just her father. He got the distinct impression she actively disliked him. Last Christmas, she hadn’t come home at all, but had stayed with friends in Sussex.

Perhaps he’d loved her too much - was it possible to love someone too much? He hadn’t thought so. Sybil was the light of his life. He adored her. There was nothing on earth he wouldn’t do for her: lay down his life, if necessary. Clothes, jewellery, money, had been heaped upon her. Anything she asked for, he made sure she got. If Sybil requested a new dress, he would buy two. When she’d asked for pearl earrings, he’d got a necklace and bracelet to match. He’d planned to buy her a mink coat for her twenty-first and this year, now that she was old enough, a sports car - she’d had lessons in London and could already drive.

He hadn’t minded the long months she’d been away at school, knowing that the holidays would soon come and she’d be home. Originally, he’d wanted her to go to a proper finishing school in Switzerland, but the situation in Europe had been too dangerous, what with that chap Hitler strutting all over the place.

The drumming of his fingers was the only sound in the house. He stopped, leaving a silence so oppressive that the hairs stiffened on his neck. If Sybil joined the forces, she could be away for years and the house would always be quiet like this. So far as he knew, Nancy was still in the basement. If she were, any minute now she’d be off to one of her meetings. He supposed he could go to his club, but wasn’t in the mood. The talk would inevitably be about the war - some of the chaps were looking forward to it, easily done if you were too old to fight. They expected the conflict to last about six months, at which point Hitler would surrender, having been given a bloody nose. Marcus was considered a Jeremiah when he argued they were wrong. The powerful German war machine had been years in the making, whereas Britain, after years of appeasement and a crazy belief in ‘peace in our time’, was only now scrambling madly to catch up.

Recently, H.B. Wallace had turned over exclusively to war work and now produced asbestos sheets for the Navy. For the moment it meant they were over-staffed but, as at least half the workforce was young enough for active service, this would be remedied as soon as the war began - a couple had already been called up. Indeed, they could actually end up with a staff shortage.

There was a knock on the study door. ‘Enter,’ he called, and Nancy Gates came in. Nancy was getting more ugly as she grew older, he thought. Now in her mid-sixties, her hair had turned completely grey and her big chin had collapsed into the folds of her neck, reminding him strongly of a giant tortoise. He hadn’t grown fond of Nancy with the years, but he was used to her and would be upset should she ever leave his employ. He’d expected she might depart when Eleanor did, but she’d stayed on, perhaps for Anthony and then, when he’d gone, for Sybil, although she’d never forged the same warm relationship with his daughter as she’d had with his wife, something he suspected was nothing to do with Nancy, but Sybil keeping her distance.

‘Is there no sign of Sybil yet?’ she asked.

‘No. She must still be with her friend, the one she went with to Renshaw Hall.’ He couldn’t remember the girl’s name.

‘I thought she might have phoned, but you know what youngsters are like: it never crosses their minds people might be worried about them.’ Nancy shrugged. ‘Cara Caffrey only went and did the same this morning: joined up, like. Brenna’s as mad as hell.’

‘It seems like only yesterday the girls were born,’ Marcus said, remembering the tiny baby in Brenna’s arms only minutes after her birth. He wished he could bring himself to ask Nancy to sit down - he could probably find more to talk about with her than any of the members of his club - but she might think he was need of company and the last thing he wanted was pity.

‘I was thinking that very thing earlier today: as you get older, the time seems to fly by. Well, I’ll be off now. I’m taking a First Aid course and this is me first night. It might be useful if we have air raids.’

‘Good for you,’ he said cordially, rather surprising himself - and Nancy: her thick eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Perhaps he should get involved in some sort of war work: the Home Guard, for instance, or Civil Defence. There was bound to be something useful he could do rather than sit at home moping for the daughter who didn’t have time for him any more.

At nine o’clock, he turned on the wireless to be met by the familiar chimes of Big Ben followed by the latest news. Nothing much had happened, just another few miles covered in the grim, remorseless march to war. He turned off the set and went to bed, but didn’t fall a sleep, not until he heard Sybil come home, by which time it was approaching midnight. He thought about getting up and remonstrating with her, gently, of course, but changed his mind. It would only get on her nerves and turn her against him even more.

 

Sybil was relieved to find that only the hall light had been left on and the rest of the house was in darkness. Daddy had obviously gone to bed and it meant she wouldn’t have to face his reproachful eyes, making her feel as if she’d badly let him down by coming home so late. Mummy, now, was completely different. There were no demands from either side and they saw each other when they felt like it. Lately, Sybil had begun to wish her mother had taken her with her when she’d walked out all those years ago.

After leaving Renshaw Hall, she and Betsy had done some shopping, had tea, then gone to the cinema to see
Gone With the Wind
, a picture that was sheer magic the whole way through and had lasted for almost four hours. They’d left the cinema in a daze and had caught a taxi back to Betsy’s house in Calderstones to have supper. Betsy’s elder brother had been there with an old pal from school and the four of them had sat talking for hours. At one point, Betsy had suggested she ring her father and explain where she was, but Sybil had said there was no need, although she knew Daddy would be sick with worry until she returned.

She wondered if, deep down, she still loved her father, but wasn’t sure. Over the last few years he’d driven her wild. He was much too possessive, too interested in her every single movement, too involved in her life, not realizing she wanted some privacy now that she was older. At times, she couldn’t help herself, but was deliberately cruel, wanting to hurt him for some horrid reason, actually enjoying the wounded look on his face when she told him to mind his own business, or for Christ’s sake to leave her alone.

She’d been rehearsing a stiff little speech for when she came in - ‘You don’t own me, I can stay out as long as I like’ - and, on the way up to her bedroom, felt rather piqued to find Daddy in bed and she wasn’t able to make it.

 

Within a fortnight, Cara was called back to Renshaw Hall for a medical that she easily passed, and was informed she’d been assigned to the ATS - the Auxiliary Territorial Reserve - in other words, the Army. She would have preferred to be a Wren, but reckoned it was no use complaining. Sheila, her friend, had changed her mind and decided to stay in Liverpool.

On the following day, Fergus Caffrey marched into Renshaw Hall and volunteered to fight for King and Country. His spectacles were in their case in his pocket, along with a copy of the sight chart that Cara had learnt by heart the day before and frantically scribbled down in the Ladies, minus the last line, which she’d forgotten. Fergus had spent the previous night memorizing it and passed the medical as easily as his sister, reeling off the letters on the chart that was merely a white blur. He could hardly believe it when told he would join the Royal Infantry and his orders would arrive within a fortnight.

When he got home, Cara looked at him questioningly. He made the thumbs-up sign. She grinned and mouthed, ‘Good!’

Fergus decided to leave it a few days before he told Mam, who was still a bit upset over Cara. After he’d eaten, he changed his shirt and went out, his spectacles on his nose. He walked until he came to a pub where he was unlikely to be recognized, as he didn’t want the news getting back to Mam before he was ready to tell her himself. Once inside, he ordered a whiskey.

‘I’m celebrating,’ he told the elderly barman. Fergus wasn’t the sort of person who normally conversed with strangers, being much too shy, but tonight, given half the chance, he would have been happy to make a public announcement. ‘Joined up today. I’m going in the Royal Infantry.’

‘In that case, laddie,’ said the barman, ‘this is on the house.’

‘And the next one’s on me,’ declared the customer who was holding up the bar next to Fergus. ‘Better still, give the lad a double and I’ll pay half.’ He pumped Fergus’s hand. ‘Good luck, lad. Give them Jerries hell.’

‘I will indeed,’ Fergus said modestly.

In no time, he was surrounded by men who wanted to shake his hand, slap his back, wish him luck and urge him to do unspeakable things to the Jerries. He left the pub hours later as pissed as a lord and as happy as a lark, having never enjoyed himself so much since Anthony had gone to America.