Through the Storm (52 page)

‘You’ve got a wife now, Dad,’ Kitty said gently, ‘and a family of your own. You don’t need me any more.’

‘Theresa’s no good. It’s you I want, Kitty, me own flesh and blood.’ How on earth would he live without his Kitty on hand?

‘Once Theresa’s had the baby, she might come round. And don’t forget, Dad,’ Kitty reminded him, ‘that the new baby’s your own flesh and blood.’

‘Jaysus, kiddo, you’ve really knocked the wind out of me sails. The lads’ll be heartbroken when I tell them. They’re dead fond of their big sister.’

‘I’m not disappearing off the planet for good, Dad. I’ll be back to see you, don’t worry.’

Jimmy came round to Jessica’s every night as soon as he finished work, as if he wanted to spend as much time as possible with his daughter before she went away.

‘What’s all that lot for?’ he asked the night before she was leaving, pointing to a small pile of clothes which were folded on the table.

‘I’ve been sorting all me stuff out,’ explained Kitty. ‘I thought I’d take them round to the WVS. I’ve got a handbag, some old shoes and a couple of books as well.’

‘But what about when you come back, luv? You’ll need those things then.’ He panicked again. Kitty
seemed
determined to leave no trace of herself behind. There would soon be nothing left to remind him of his girl. ‘I’ll store this lot in me loft for you.’

‘If you like, Dad.’ Kitty understood and let him take the few things, though she knew she would never need them again.

Next morning, about twenty neighbours accompanied Kitty to Marsh Lane Station to wave farewell when she caught the train. Jimmy had taken the morning off to accompany her as far as Lime Street Station.

‘I’m sick to death of goodbyes,’ sobbed Sheila when the train had disappeared. ‘Folks are forever leaving, and not all of them come back.’

‘Remember when we started school – it was our very first day,’ Brenda Mahon reminisced, ‘and everyone was making fun of that little kid from Dryden Street who had a terrible squint? Kitty was the only one who wouldn’t join in. She went out of her way to play with him at break time, although she was only five and it must have taken an awful lot of courage.’

‘She was always a lovely girl, Kitty Quigley,’ Aggie Donovan said tearfully, ‘though I must say I was surprised when she took up with that there Yank.’

Gus had found a furnished bungalow which was ready to move into in a small village only a short distance from Burtonwood. He took Jessica to visit it before signing the lease. It had been built for a young couple only four years before, but when the man was called up, his wife had gone to live with her parents in Chester. The furniture was new, and although not Jessica’s choice, she decided she could live with it until the war was over and they all went to live in New York.

As soon as she was back in Pearl Street, she started to pack her belongings. ‘I seem to do this regularly once a year: first Calderstones, then Bootle, the Lake District. I travelled a long way, but I always ended up back
where
I started. Now I’m leaving Bootle for the third time in my life, but this time I know I’ll never be coming back.’

She felt a mixture of joy and infinite sadness. Bootle was her home and would always remain so in her heart, but things moved on, life was unpredictable. Three years ago, she was living in Calderstones, childless and married to Arthur. Now, Arthur was dead, she had Penny – and an American husband.

She found herself thinking about Arthur a lot. Although she knew it was a case of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted, she wished desperately she’d been nicer to him. Jessica vowed that she would never do anything to Gus or Penny that she would regret later. ‘I think I’ve already changed a little for the better. Years ago, I would never have had such patience with Kitty. I would have told her to pull herself together, to stop moaning and get on with it.’

On her final night in the street where she was born, after Penny had gone to bed, Jessica slipped into the Reillys’ to say a private farewell to Sheila and give her Penny’s baby clothes, sadly no longer needed for the child she’d been expecting herself.

‘I know I’ll see you briefly in the morning, but I just wanted to wish you all the best for the future, Sheil. I pray that everything turns out well with the new baby and one day soon Calum will be home for good.’

‘It said on the wireless we’ve turned the corner.’ Sheila hated goodbyes. She was doing her level best not to cry.

‘That’s right. We’ve been told to wait up for the midnight bulletin.’ Jessica stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. ‘Will your dad be along soon? I’d like to say goodbye and he won’t be around tomorrow.’

‘He’s gone to a lecture with Kate Thomas. Me and our Eileen keep hoping something’ll come of it between them, but I don’t think so, somehow.’

Jessica didn’t think so, either. ‘Give him my love, then. Well, cheerio, Sheila.’

‘Tara, Jess.’

The two women embraced stiffly and promised to visit each other soon. Jessica went home and switched the wireless on low. The faint strains of a choir singing ‘Greensleeves’ came from the set. This time, it wasn’t merely a false hope, it definitely appeared as if things were going their way for a change. Algeria had capitulated, the Australians were doing well in New Guinea and the Americans had landed on the Solomon Islands. Although Stalingrad was still under siege, the Russians were gradually getting the upper hand. Nature having taken her relentless and predictable course, snow already lay thick on the Caucasus and the invaders were faced with another paralysing Russian winter. In North Africa, forty thousand enemy prisoners had been taken when Major-General Montgomery and his troops attacked El Alamein, and the RAF continued with their heavy raids on German cities.

Jessica listened to the music as she emptied the drawers of the sideboard. She hadn’t been there long enough to fill them with the usual rubbish which accumulated over the years. The suitcases and boxes were waiting in the parlour ready to be loaded in the van. She’d almost forgotten about the van, and discovered there was enough petrol to get her as far as Burtonwood. The bungalow had a garage, and, you never knew, the van could be worth something once the war was over.

In the right-hand sideboard drawer she found the letter from Arthur’s Commanding Officer, together with the photo of her wedding. She was about to throw them both on the fire, when she decided to keep them instead. ‘I know I’m starting a new life with Gus, but it doesn’t mean I should cancel out everything that’s
happened
before. Arthur specially asked that Penny should never forget him. She might want to know what he looked like when she’s older.’

She hoped Gus would manage to get there that night. Once the men were all safely back and the base had settled down for the night, he usually came so they could spend a few hours together. He was determined to give her another child to replace the one she’d lost. ‘It’s still not too late, Jess. Lots of women have children well into their forties.’

But not in their late forties. Jessica had a strong feeling in her bones that it was all a waste of time, though trying was better than it had ever been with Jack Doyle. Still, she had Penny – and she also had Peter, the son she’d never met.

Jessica was so lost in her thoughts that Big Ben had begun to chime before she realised it was midnight and the news was about to begin. She quickly turned the wireless up. Bruce Belfrage was the announcer. His normally calm voice was jubilant. ‘The enemy is in full retreat in North Africa.’

The great German General Rommel had been beaten! The tide had turned. Throughout the land, cheers went up, particularly when the news was relayed by loudspeaker to workers on the late shift.

For some, the news had come too late to raise a cheer. They were glad, of course, but had already lost their loved ones. Others, more cautious, wondered how many more years would it be before they reached their final goal: victory!

In Pearl Street, there was a knock on the door of number 10 and Jessica Henningsen hurried down the hall to let her husband in. ‘Have you heard the good news?’ she asked excitedly.

Gus nodded. ‘There’s a few guys celebrating on the corner and they told me.’ He kissed her and she nestled in his arms. ‘What was it Churchill said – “Into the
storm
and through the storm”. Well, we’re halfway there, Jess. It won’t be long before we’re through the storm completely.’

If you have enjoyed

Through the Storm

don’t miss

LIME STREET BLUES

another Maureen Lee bestseller

in Orion paperback

ISBN
: 978-0-7528-4961-4

It always began with the sound of the footsteps, the soft, slithering footsteps on the stairs, the unshod feet in their well-darned socks lifting steadily from one step to the next. He wasn’t the sort of man to wear slippers. Listening, I would picture him in my mind’s eye, just his feet, coming up the narrow beige carpet with the red border, the cheapest you could buy, worn away to threads in the middle and secured to the stairs with triangular-shaped varnished rods that slid into bronze brackets at the side. I saw everything very, very clearly, in precise detail.

Even on the nights when there were no footsteps, I never went asleep before Mam came home from work at ten o’clock. Then I would feel relatively safe, but not completely. Mam had never been able to offer much protection. But even he must have realised that a child’s screams at dead of night might have alerted someone; a neighbour, a passer-by.

I still dream about it frequently, always the footsteps, never the violence, the terror that was to come. Because in my dreams I am not there when he enters the room. My bed is empty. Yet I can see him, as though an invisible me is present, the tall figure of my father, an expression on his dark, handsome face and in his dark eyes that I could never quite fathom. Was it excitement? Anticipation? Behind the glitter of the main emotion, whatever it might have been, I sensed something else, mysterious, sad, as if deep within him he
regretted
what he was about to do. But he couldn’t help it. The excitement, the anticipation, gripped him like a drug, stifling any other, kinder, feelings he might have had.

In my dream I would watch him slowly undo his belt buckle, hear its tiny click, the feathery smooth sound the leather made as he pulled it through the loops of his trousers until it dangled from his hand like a snake.

Then he would reach down to drag me out of bed, but this was a dream
and I wasn’t there!

Oh, the look on his face then! I savoured it. I felt triumphant.

At this point, I usually woke up bathed in perspiration, my heart beating fiercely, still triumphant, but at the same time slightly sick.

I’d escaped!

Sometimes, though, the dream continued, just as life had continued in the days when the dream wasn’t a dream but real.

I knew that when he came back from the pub, always drunk, he would scratch around downstairs, poking here and there, in the dirty washing, through the toys, searching for something that would give him an excuse to let rip with a thrashing. He liked to have an excuse. He’d find the mark of a felt-tipped pen on a tablecloth that Mam hadn’t had time to wash, paint dropped on a frock at school, the arm off a doll, or toys not put away properly. Anything could trigger the sound of those slithering footsteps on the stairs.

There were other nights, the best ones, when he would fall asleep in the chair – according to Mam, he worked hard – or he might watch television. Looking back, my memory softened slightly by time, this probably happened more often than I used to think.

In the extended dream I still wasn’t there, but now my little sister was in the other bed, and it was she who bore the brunt of our father’s anger, or frustration, or
excitement
, or self-loathing, or whatever it was that made him want to beat the life out of his wife and children, so that his dark shadow lay heavily over our house, even when he wasn’t there.

There would be no feeling of triumph when I woke up, just desolation and despair. Would the dreams never end? Would I ever forget? For the rest of my life, would I, Millie Cameron, never stop wishing that I was invisible?

‘Rose!’ Mrs Corbett bellowed. ‘Where are you?’

‘Up here, madam.’ Rose appeared, breathless, at the top of the stairs. ‘Making the beds.’

‘I’d have thought you’d be finished by now.’

‘I’ve only just started, madam.’

‘Huh!’ Mrs Corbett said contemptuously. She always seemed to expect her maid to have begun the next job, or even the one after that, leaving Rose with the constant feeling that she was way behind. ‘Well, get a move on, girl. I want you in uniform by eleven o’clock. The vicar and his wife are coming for coffee.’

‘Yes, madam.’ It was exceptionally warm for June and there were beads of perspiration on Rose’s brow when she returned to the colonel’s room and began to plump up pillows, straighten sheets and tuck them firmly under the mattress. Colonel Max was Mrs Corbett’s son, a professional soldier, presently home on leave. He was a much nicer person than his mother, very kind. She was always sorry when he had to return to his regiment.

Mrs Corbett, on the other hand, was never kind. She apparently thought the more Rose was harried, the harder she would work. But Rose already laboured as hard as she could. That morning, she’d been up at six, as she was every morning, to light the Aga. On the dot of seven, Mrs Corbett had been taken up a cup of tea, two
slices
of bread and butter, and
The Times
. The colonel had been given his tea on the dot of eight, by which time his mother was having a bath, the coal scuttle had been filled, the washing had been hung on the line, the numerous clocks had been wound, and Mrs Denning, the cook who lived in the village, had arrived to make breakfast.

While the Corbetts ate, Rose sat down to her own breakfast, although, more often than not, the bell would ring and she would scurry into the dining room to be met with complaints that the eggs were overdone, the kippers not cooked enough, or there wasn’t enough toast, none of which was Rose’s fault, but Mrs Corbett behaved as if it was.