Through the Storm (16 page)

‘Penny,’ said Jessica, adding, ‘She’s nearly fourteen months old,’ to save Rita from asking.

‘Hallo, Penny,’ Rita said awkwardly.

Penny had inherited her mother’s smile and gave Rita the full benefit as she tottered towards her, grabbed her legs and looked up at her appealingly.

Rita asked nervously, ‘What does she want?’

‘She wants you to pick her up, but you don’t have to. She’s a terrible weight.’

A horn honked and Jessica hastily left the workshop and served a customer with petrol. The man was unusually garrulous and wanted to know where Rita was and how was Den getting on in the army.

Jessica explained about Rita, but expressed total ignorance about her husband’s progress in the military. ‘If you and any of your acquaintances need work doing, the garage is open for business again,’ she told him.

‘So she managed to get a mechanic, after all?’ he remarked.

In view of her previous experience, Jessica felt it wise not to say the mechanic was herself. ‘A very good mechanic,’ she said.

‘I’ll bear that in mind, though I don’t have any acquaintances who own a car. This isn’t mine, it belongs to me boss who just sent me out in search of petrol. You don’t get many car owners in Bootle.’

This was something that had already begun to dawn on Jessica when she noticed the singular lack of traffic in the road – and most of that was commercial. She went back into the workshop, where Rita and Penny were sitting on the blanket playing with bricks.

‘Where did Den get his work from?’ she asked.

Rita thought hard. ‘I never took much interest in the business meself, but I know he had a contract with the GPO in Balliol Road. He used to maintain all their vans. Oh, and he used to do work for Mersey Cable Works, as well.’

‘I suppose I could get in touch and inform them the garage has re-opened.’

‘You’ll have a job. Both the GPO and Mersey Cable Works were bombed. I’ve no idea if they’ve opened up again. Come on, Penny, put another block on, then you’ll have five.’

‘Oh, no!’ Jessica groaned.

‘By the way, a letter came for Den this morning. I don’t suppose the Ministry have caught on he’s been called up.’ Rita produced a creased letter out of the pocket of her dressing gown.

‘Oh, no!’ Jessica groaned again as she read the contents. From this month, November, spare parts for vehicles could only be obtained by the production of a certificate from the Ministry of War Transport. Tyres could be replaced if an official inspector confirmed the existing ones had worn out. It meant that even if she could persuade motorists to allow her to mend their cars, obtaining the spare parts could prove rather difficult to say the least.

‘Aren’t you glad we only shook hands on a month?’ Rita said with a grin. ‘Mind you, I wasn’t expecting that letter. Eh, your Penny’s dead smart. Going to be a bricky when she grows up, aren’t you, luv? Where’s her dad, by the way – if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Up in the Lake District. I’ve left him.’

‘Have you now?’ Rita’s eyes narrowed. ‘On the market again, are you? Well, you shouldn’t have too much difficulty finding another feller. Is your hair natural red, or is it hennaed?’

‘Natural,’ lied Jessica. It was only a partial lie; the henna merely hid the few grey hairs that had begun to appear over the last few years.

‘I dye mine.’ Rita touched her bouncy curls. ‘Den’d have a fit if he could see me. I was plain brown when he left.’ She drained her glass and got to her feet. ‘Well, I think it’s time for a cuppa. D’you fancy one yourself? I’ve got some lemonade for Penny.’

‘I’ve brought tea and milk with me.’

‘Well, it’s no use down here, luv, there’s nowhere to boil water.’

‘In that case, I’d love a cuppa,’ Jessica said gratefully. ‘Take my tea. I don’t want to make you short.’

‘There’s no need. I’ve stacks of tea. In fact, you can have a packet if you like.’

Rita left and came back about ten minutes later with a tray set with a frilly cloth and tea things, including a cup and saucer for herself, along with a glass of lemonade. She’d started making up her face which was covered with bright orange pancake.

Throughout the morning, she kept appearing, each time having done something more to prepare herself for the day ahead. Her lips were painted, her eyes made up, her hair arranged in a daring and rather elaborate style that must have taken ages to do and she’d changed into a skimpy crepe de Chine frock patterned with scarlet poppies. She brought two packets of tea and a tin of corned beef on one occasion and flatly refused to take the money for them.

‘I got them for nothing. It wouldn’t seem right, taking money off me friends.’

Despite the in-built snobbery that still persisted, Jessica felt rather touched that she was already regarded as Rita’s friend.

Next time Rita arrived with something black over her arm. ‘What size are you?’

‘Forty inch hip,’ replied Jessica. She knew she was large, but she also knew she was shapely with it.

‘Perhaps this skirt’ll fit you. One of me friends brought it for me, but it’s miles too big. It’s good quality. I think it dropped off the back of a lorry.’

The skirt, straight, with a kick pleat at the back, had a Gor-ray label. Jessica was instantly enamoured.

‘It’s lovely, but this time I insist on paying you.’

‘Don’t be silly. I told you, someone gave it to me. It’s been hanging in me wardrobe for ages.’

‘What did your husband do to make you leave him?’ she asked on another occasion.

Normally, Jessica would have resented such a question, but she was still too pleased about the skirt to mind.
‘He
didn’t do anything. He’s a very nice man, Arthur. We got on very well.’

Rita stared at her blankly for a moment, as if trying to understand. Then she nodded, ‘I know, but you were bored. Strange, isn’t it, how the nicest men are always boring?’

‘I suppose it is.’ Jessica decided Rita was remarkably astute.

‘You must come to one of me parties some time. I always have at least one a week, usually on Saturdays.’

‘Thanks all the same,’ Jessica said hastily, ‘but I couldn’t, not with Penny.’

‘Well, if you can get someone to look after her, you’re always welcome.’

The telephone in the office went around one o’clock and Jessica nearly jumped out of her skin. She ran to answer it, desperately trying to remember the number, but when she picked it up she heard Rita give it in her funny special voice. There must be an extension upstairs.

‘Rita, gal,’ a man’s voice boomed, ‘it’s Larry, your favourite man in the world.’

Jessica hurriedly replaced the receiver, feeling disappointed. She’d rather hoped it was someone wanting their car fixed.

‘Well, Penny, I reckon it’s time we had our lunch. We’ve not been exactly busy, this morning, have we?’

‘Dada,’ said Penny.

An hour later, Rita appeared dressed in a royal blue coat with a little veiled hat over one eye. ‘I’m off to the pictures,’ she announced, ‘to see Cary Grant in
His Girl Friday
. I often used to go to a matinee performance until I had to look after that bloody pump. You’ll probably be gone by the time I get back, so tara.’

‘Cheerio.’

Lucky old Rita, Jessica thought gloomily as she watched her trip away rather unsteadily on her high
heels
. She supposed she too could have gone to a matinee if she’d stayed with Arthur, but she hadn’t, and some way, somehow, she had to support herself, which meant getting the garage off the ground.

How? she wondered, after having served several more customers with petrol. One man, who turned out to be a doctor on his rounds, asked if he could make an appointment to have a new clutch fitted.

‘Only when you get a licence from the Ministry of War Transport,’ Jess said sadly. ‘It’s a new regulation, starting this month.’

‘Good gracious me! They do make things complicated, don’t they?’

‘Would you like our mechanic to take a look at the clutch you’ve got?’ Jessica suggested hopefully. ‘It might stand tightening.’

‘No thank you, dear. It’s already been adjusted as far as it will go. I’ll just have to get a dratted licence.’ He got into the car, grumbling. ‘I wonder if the Government realises how difficult they make it for me to look after my sick patients?’

Perhaps I could get some business cards or leaflets printed and distribute them around, Jessica thought as she watched him drive away. Then she remembered there was a paper shortage and it was difficult enough trying to find a writing pad in the shops.

‘I’ve bitten off more than I can chew,’ she said to herself. ‘Even if someone came in with a simple job that didn’t require spare parts, they mightn’t be prepared to let me do it because I’m a woman.’

A few nights later, she aired her grievances when she went over to Brenda Mahon’s with some of her old clothes which she wanted bringing up to date, particularly the turquoise bouclé suit which she intended to wear at Sean Doyle’s wedding. Business had definitely not picked up as the week progressed. She’d cleaned an
old
man’s plugs for sixpence and offered to de-coke the engine of a van that was puffing clouds of black smoke, but had been huffily rejected. ‘We’ve already got a mechanic at the factory. He’s been meaning to do it for ages. Anyroad, what the hell do you know about engines?’

Brenda Mahon was a dressmaker patronised by some of the wealthiest women in Liverpool. Since clothes rationing had been introduced, she made her living remodelling outdated outfits, turning two suits into one, adding padding to unfashionable drooping shoulders, taking hems up, turning long dresses into short ones and making sleeves from the surplus material. She still turned out some new garments, but with material at two coupons a yard, these were few and far between.

A nondescript little woman wearing nondescript clothes because she was always too busy to make anything for herself, she usually sat in the middle of her parlour working away furiously on her treadle sewing machine, her mouth full of pins. Hanging from the picture rail on all sides of the room were an array of beautiful outfits in various stages of completion. Not all were expensive; Brenda’s friends and neighbours paid a mere fraction of what she charged her wealthier clients.

Sheila Reilly was already there when Jessica arrived, as well as Kitty Quigley, a pretty, timid girl with lovely skin whom she scarcely knew. Although Kitty had apparently been in the same class at school as the two other women, she looked years younger than them both. Sheila was standing on a chair in a half finished frock while Brenda crawled round the floor, her mouth full of the inevitable pins, adjusting the hem.

‘That’s smart, Sheila,’ Jessica said. The dress was pale grey heavy wool, completely plain with a straight skirt.

‘It’s got a matching three-quarter-length jacket,’ said Sheila, ‘with a shiny collar and cuffs.’

‘Grosgrain,’ Brenda said through the pins. ‘It’s nice to make something new for a change.’

‘It’s for our Sean’s wedding, a present from our Eileen. I could never have afforded it meself. It was supposed to be for her own wedding originally, but then Nick turned up out of the blue armed with a licence, and she got married at a few hours’ notice, didn’t she? Mind you, it was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it, Bren?’ Sheila’s blue eyes turned dreamy, remembering.

Brenda nodded, ‘Dead lovely. Ever so romantic, just like a novel.’

‘It’s a pity you couldn’t have been there, Jess, but there wasn’t time to tell you. Fact, there wasn’t time to tell half the street.’

‘It’s what I missed the most when I was away, the weddings and all that sort of thing,’ Jessica said.

‘Aye, but don’t forget you missed quite a few funerals, too.’

‘Even so, I’d sooner have been here for them.’ Jessica turned to Kitty, who’d not spoken a word since she arrived. ‘Did you go to Eileen’s wedding?’

‘No, I couldn’t leave me dad. He’s an invalid, y’see,’ the girl said nervously.

‘Was!’ Sheila said sharply. ‘
Was
an invalid. Since you started work, Kitty, I’ve seen him bobbing up all over the place. He was in Ernie Robinson’s the other day buying ciggies.’

‘He’s much better than he was,’ Kitty conceded. ‘It’s just sheer willpower on his part. He’s determined to get better so’s I won’t worry about him when I’m at work.’

Sheila made a face, as if she didn’t believe a word of it.

‘Kitty works in the Royal Naval Hospital in Seaforth,’ Brenda explained out of the side of her mouth that wasn’t full of pins. ‘She’s a nurse.’

‘Only an auxiliary,’ Kitty said, blushing.

‘That sounds awfully responsible and important,’ Jess said warmly.

‘Oh, it is!’ Kitty launched into a vivid description of the job she obviously loved. ‘I wouldn’t mind training to be a proper nurse once the war’s over,’ she finished.

‘I think that’ll do, Sheil.’ Brenda got to her feet, groaning. ‘Now, Kitty, perhaps you’d like to try your coat on. I won’t be long, Jess. Is Penny by herself?’

‘Yes, but she was fast asleep when I left and she rarely wakes up.’

‘How are you getting on with the garage?’ enquired Sheila.

‘Abysmally,’ Jessica sighed. ‘I’m glad I only took it on for a month. I can’t see me getting it off the ground. There’s all sorts of rules and regulations, and even if there weren’t, no-one’s willing to let me fix their cars because I’m a woman – not that there’s many cars about to fix.’

Sheila wrinkled her nose dubiously. ‘You must admit, Jess, it’s a dead scream, a woman running a garage.’

‘I can’t see why.’ Jessica felt defensive. ‘Your Eileen became a centre lathe turner and we’ve got a woman delivering the post. There’s women in the forces and working on the buses and the trams. Women can do anything men can do as long as they’re properly trained.’

‘But, even so, Jess, a garage?’ Sheila shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I’d leave my car with a woman to mend, not that I’m likely to have a car in a million years.’

‘Well, if women don’t have faith in each other, there’s not much chance we’ll get anywhere,’ Jessica said testily.

Support came from an unexpected quarter. ‘Xavier couldn’t even change the gas mantle,’ Brenda Mahon said as she turned Kitty round and began to pin the collar on her blue velour coat. ‘It was always me who had to put a new one in. And it was me who fixed the lavatory when the chain wouldn’t work and screwed the latch on the back door that time it fell off. And I put the shelves up in the kitchen. Xavier wouldn’t know what a
screwdriver
was if you shoved it up his arse. It would never have crossed the girls’ minds to ask their dad to do anything for them. No, I reckon Jess’s right, Sheil. Women can turn their hands to most things if given half a chance.’