Through the Storm (12 page)

‘Oh, God, that would be so unfair,’ Jess said passionately. She remembered Boxing Day, the first Christmas of the war, when she’d gone over to Eileen’s house in Pearl Street and found her black and blue, her neck raw, after Francis, her first husband, had tried to strangle her. He was a beast, Francis Costello, and Jessica wasn’t sorry when she learnt he was dead. But for Eileen to lose her son, then Nick, the husband she loved so dearly, well … Jess was lost for the words to express how she felt.

‘Death isn’t doled out fairly, is it?’ Sheila said acidly. ‘There’s no judge up there to say, “Well, we’ve taken one off her, let’s take some other woman’s son or husband now.”’

‘I feel terrible.’ Jess’s voice shook. ‘I missed the raids and ever since I came back, I’ve been revelling in the war, walking up and down the Dockie thinking how exciting it all is.’

‘It’s not exciting, Jess. It’s too bloody tragic for words.’

The children had eaten. Sheila went with them into the garden to supervise a game of rounders and Eileen and Jess stood by the window watching. The baby had just had his bottle and lay on his mother’s shoulder whilst she rubbed his back.

‘Penny’s very anxious to join in,’ Eileen remarked.

‘Isn’t she?’ Each time someone hit the ball, Penny staggered after it, but before she was even halfway there, the ball had been picked up and thrown elsewhere.

‘She’s a lovely little girl, Jess, ever so sturdy. Going to be a tomboy, I reckon.’

‘Tony was a lovely little boy,’ Jess said softly. ‘I haven’t seen you since he was killed, Eileen, and somehow you can’t express exactly how you feel in a letter, but I’m terribly sorry. I cried for days, he was such a gentle boy, very wise and knowing for six.’

‘He was a daft lad, our Tony,’ Eileen smiled. ‘His dad used to get impatient with him because he wasn’t good at football and he never cared about winning or coming first. Nick understood him better than Francis ever did. Tony really loved Nick.’

‘I’ve never met Nick,’ Jess said.

‘Would you like to see his picture? It’s on the sideboard. It’s only a snapshot taken at our wedding that I had enlarged.’

‘You’re not on it!’ The photo was of a smiling young man in an RAF uniform standing in the garden outside. He had a wide mobile mouth and a mop of dark curly hair.

‘I was nine months pregnant, wasn’t I? Nicky was born the night I got married. I kept well away from the camera.’

‘He’s got a slightly Latin look,’ Jess said, examining the photo keenly.

‘His parents were Greek. Their name used to be Stephanopoulos.’

‘He looks as if he laughs a lot.’

‘He does.’ Eileen took the photo. She stared at it, her head on one side. ‘Isn’t it strange, the way two people manage to find each other out of all the other men and women in the world? Somehow, some way, they get thrown together and that’s it, there’ll never be anyone else. I met Nick, our Sheila met Cal, you met Arthur.’

‘Sometimes we find the wrong one, though, like you found Francis – or he found you.’ Jessica was unsure whether Arthur was the right man or the wrong one for her. Perhaps he’d been right at the time.

‘I don’t suppose fate always does it properly first time round. As long as she gets things right in the end, that’s all that matters.’

Nicky burped and Eileen glanced at Jess triumphantly. ‘What a welcome sound that is! They get more wind with powdered milk. I wish I could have breastfed him like I did Tony, but I lost all me own milk.’ She closed her eyes briefly and held the baby’s cheek to hers. ‘I usually put him to the breast once he’s had his bottle. I think we both find it a comfort.’

Outside, the black clouds were bunching together threateningly. Rain looked very close. A gust of wind shook the trees and leaves fluttered down. The children stopped playing and ran to catch them.

Eileen, watching, jerked her head suddenly and gasped.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Jessica.

‘Sometimes I think I see Tony in the garden, just a flash of his fair hair underneath the trees.’

Jessica looked at her, alarmed. ‘Do you think it’s wise, love,’ she said carefully, ‘to stay here alone? It’s awfully isolated.’

Eileen looked at her as if she was mad. ‘As if I’d ever leave the cottage! Anyroad, I’m not alone. I’ve got Nicky. And I’ve got Nick. This is where we used to
make
love. His spirit is everywhere. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine we’re all here together, the four of us, a proper family.’

Jessica bought the Liverpool
Echo
on Monday and pored through the businesses for sale. There were only a few and all were quite beyond her means. As she had only fifteen pounds left of the housekeeping she’d managed to save whilst she was away, this was only to be expected.

‘I wonder if I could rent a shop?’

There were three; a haberdashery, a newsagent’s and premises which were empty, but although the rent for the first two was low, they wanted a hefty sum for the stock and goodwill. The third was ‘in need of extensive renovation’, and miles away on the other side of Liverpool, though Jessica cut the advert out, just in case.

She bought the paper every day, but by the end of the week she was as far away as ever from earning her own living and the fifteen pounds was down to thirteen pounds seven and threepence. The Lake District loomed ominously ahead.

‘That would be unfair on Arthur. I’d only be going back because I can’t live without his money.’

On Saturday, she managed to buy a piece of haddock for their tea. The fishmonger wrapped it in an old piece of the
Bootle Times
. After they’d eaten, when Jessica was clearing up, she was about to fold the paper up and put it neatly with the others ready to take to Aggie Donovan, who was the official waste-paper collector for the street, when she noticed it was a page containing the small ads and one immediately caught her eye.

‘Garage to Rent,’ it read, and in brackets underneath, ‘Linacre Lane.’

It was a small advert outlined in black. At first, Jessica assumed it was someone renting out a place to store a car, just as she’d rented somewhere for the van. Nevertheless, she read on, ‘One pump, small workshop. £5 a week for the duration.’ This was followed by a telephone number.

Excitement mounting, Jessica searched for the date at the top of the paper. The excitement fled when she saw it was dated the end of August. Two months ago.

Still, it was worth a try. She took Penny along to Sheila’s. ‘Do you mind looking after her for a minute? I want to make a phone call.’

‘Of course I don’t. She loves being with her Auntie Sheila, don’t you, Penny, luv?’

The number was answered by a woman who sounded as if she kept a special voice for the telephone, a rather exaggerated falsetto. When Jessica told her the reason she was calling, she lapsed into a normal Liverpudlian accent. ‘The garage? I’d almost forgotten I’d put an adver
tise
ment in.’ She put the emphasis on the third syllable, adver
tise
ment. ‘She’s common,’ thought Jessica. ‘Is it still available?’ she enquired.

‘I suppose so. I’d more or less given up on the idea. Me husband’s in the army and I can’t get anyone to work here. That’s why I thought of renting and letting someone else take the bloody place off me hands.’

‘Can I come and see it?’

‘You? For your husband, like?’

‘No, for myself. Can I come or not?’ Jessica demanded impatiently.

‘Well, if you like.’ The woman sounded dubious. ‘I hope you’re not wasting me time. I’ve got friends in at the moment. You do realise it’s a garage we’re talking about; y’know, a place where you mend cars?’

‘I know what a garage is,’ Jessica said coldly. ‘If I could
have
your name and address?’ She felt certain Sheila wouldn’t mind looking after Penny for a while longer.

‘The name’s Mott, Mrs Rita Mott. I’m directly opposite the football ground by Linacre Bridge. You can’t miss us.’

It was a relatively modern building, with double doors and living quarters above, the windows of which were adorned with frilly purple net. There was a single petrol pump in the small forecourt.

Jessica knocked on the side door as she’d been instructed and was pleased to notice a small, untidy garden at the rear where Penny could play. She could hear music from within and the sound of men’s voices. After quite a while, the door was opened by a small skinny woman of about thirty with hair a far more brilliant red than Jessica’s. She wore a purple scarf which looked as if it might have been made out of leftover curtains turbanwise on top of her head, and tied in a huge bow which made her look rather like a startled rabbit. She had on a tight-fitting black crepe dress with sequins on the shoulders, and a cigarette protruded upwards like a chimney out of the corner of her bright scarlet mouth, which had been painted slightly larger than it actually was.

‘That much lipstick would last me a week!’ thought Jessica. ‘I wonder where she gets it from? And the pancake’s plastered on.’

Rita Mott’s eyelashes were little sticks of knobbly mascara. She fluttered them in shock when she saw Jessica, in her smart camel coat with a silk blouse underneath and brown alligator shoes with matching handbag.

‘Are you sure about this?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Dead sure. May I take a look around?’

Rita Mott opened the double doors with a key. The workshop was big enough to hold four cars at a pinch.
There
was a pit at the back, a small half-glazed office in the far corner, and the place appeared adequately equipped with tools.

‘It was Den’s pride and joy, this garage.’ Rita pursed her lips in a wry sort of way, as if she wasn’t entirely sure if that had been a good thing or not. She had the ability to puff in and out on the cigarette without removing it from her mouth. She screwed up her eyes to escape the smoke. ‘He skimped and scraped for years to get it off the ground. It was showing a good profit and he’d even taken on a mate from school to lend a hand, when not long after both of ’em were called up. Den’s in India now, stationed in some place with a dead peculiar name.’

Jessica made sympathetic noises and Rita shrugged. ‘Mind you, trade was already beginning to drop off a little bit by then. Quite a few cars have been taken off the road since petrol rationing started, but I’m sure there’s still enough to keep one person busy. Anyroad, I promised Dennis I’d keep the place going while he was away so’s he wouldn’t lose the goodwill he’d built up, but although I manage the pump meself, I can’t get a good mechanic for love nor money. I did have this old geezer for a while, but people kept bringing their cars back to complain they weren’t fixed proper.’

‘I suppose the good ones have gone into factories.’

‘And what makes you think you’re a good one – mechanic, that is?’ Rita stared at Jessica somewhat belligerently. ‘I still can’t believe you’re serious. One of me friends upstairs suggested someone’s playing a joke, having me on, like.’

‘It’s no joke. My father had his own removal and haulage business,’ Jessica explained. ‘I used to help maintain the lorries when he first started. I know engines inside out.’

‘All the same, it’s a funny job for a woman to want to do,’ Rita remarked.

‘I like being my own boss – I take it there wouldn’t be any interference from you?’

Rita sniggered. ‘You can bet your life there wouldn’t. I don’t know one end of a car from the other. As long as no-one brings ’em back to complain, I’ll be happy. Oh, you’d have to look after the pump, too. It’s a bloody nuisance most of the time. It means I can never go out during the day.’

‘That’s all right. I take it the profit from the pump would be mine?’

Rita looked nonplussed for the moment. She puffed on her cigarette whilst she thought. ‘That’d be only right, wouldn’t it?’ she said eventually. ‘You don’t make much on petrol, but it wouldn’t be proper, you working it in on my behalf, as it were.’

Jessica decided Rita Mott was a fair-minded woman and she quite liked her, despite her ghastly appearance. ‘Shall we shake hands on it, then?’

To her surprise, Rita looked more reluctant than Jessica had expected. ‘Well, let’s give it a month, see how you get on, like. I’m not sure how Den’s old customers’ll take to a woman.’ She shook hands all the same. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve got a party going on inside, and me friends’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. You can pay the five quid at the end of the first week. When can I expect you to turn up?’

‘Monday,’ said Jessica. ‘You can expect me on Monday, nine o’clock sharp.’

‘Den always opened up at eight.’

‘Eight o’clock, then. No!’ Jessica remembered she was her own boss. It was
her
garage and Rita had promised there would be no interference. ‘Half past eight. I’ll see you at half past eight on Monday.’

A terrible thing happened that weekend. The air-raid siren wailed, as it still did occasionally. No-one took much notice, convinced it was another false alarm. They
didn’t
rush to their shelters, but waited instead for the sound of planes overhead, a signal this was a real raid after four and a half months free from attack.

The planes seemed to appear out of nowhere and took everyone by surprise as all of a sudden, to their intense horror, bombs began to fall.

Sheila Reilly frantically dragged her children from their beds and ushered them under the stairs. Doors slammed throughout the street as people quickly made for the public shelter around the corner. Scarcely anyone in the King’s Arms moved; if they were going to die, then what better way than with a pint of bitter in their hand and surrounded by all their old mates, though one or two men left to be with their families.

In number 1, Nan Wright was woken by the strange howling sound and wondered what it was. She couldn’t be bothered getting up to find out. It couldn’t be anything important, not in the middle of the night. Nan spent all her time indoors lately and her concerned neighbours kept coming in to see how she was. ‘Ould Jacob Singerman hasn’t been in a long time,’ Nan thought. ‘I wonder if he’s all right?’ She turned over and fell asleep and dreamt of Ruby, who was out in the street beckoning to her and calling, ‘Come on, Mam.’ ‘Come on where, girl?’ Nan cried. ‘Come on where?’