‘I dunno as I ever heard it,’ the woman said, as Debbie turned away. ‘But it weren’t O’Shea, that’s for sure.’
Debbie wondered whether to find Lavender Court before she returned to her lodgings, but the baby was growing fretful and she realised the child must need a bottle, so she set off once more for Huskisson Street. She was in the kitchen chatting idly to Mrs Roberts and feeding Baby with a bottle of warmed milk when the front door bell rang.
Mrs Roberts surged ponderously to her feet. ‘That’ll be me new lodger,’ she said. ‘Ever such a nice gentleman. He’s like you; lost his home and the woman he meant to make his wife, poor feller.’
‘Oh, right,’ Debbie said vaguely. She was cradling the baby against her shoulder, watching lovingly as the level in the bottle dropped. Baby – she must remember to call her Clodagh now – certainly enjoyed her milk, and if the previous day’s experience was anything to go by she would presently enjoy a helping of mashed potato and carrot mixed with gravy.
Debbie heard the front door open and half heard two voices, then felt her blood go cold. The man’s deep voice was not merely familiar, it was heartily disliked, and to her horror she heard Mrs Roberts usher its owner into the front parlour, saying as she did so: ‘We’d best talk in here, Mr Williams, if you’ve anything of a confidential nature to say. I’d ask you into the kitchen, but I’ve another lodger in there, a young lady, and she’s feeding her baby, so we’d best talk in the parlour.’
The baby had finished her bottle and seemed inclined to sleep, so Debbie propped her up in the deep old armchair and then tiptoed across the hall. The parlour door was not properly closed and through it she could hear Mrs Roberts’s voice. ‘Well, Mr Williams? You know my terms and conditions; is owt worrying you?’
‘Not exactly worrying, Mrs Roberts,’ Uncle Max said. ‘But I’ve been to my lady friend’s solicitor, the lady I was telling you about, the one I should have married only she were killed. She’s left me everything she possessed in trust for her daughter and she’s left her daughter in my guardianship. That means I’ll have to find the child, and if I do, would you be able to accommodate her? Just until I get a place of me own, of course.’
‘Well, there’s the attic,’ Mrs Roberts said doubtfully. ‘Of course, the young woman what’s here at present may not be stayin’ long. She’s paid a fortnight in advance but for all I know she may move on at the end of that time. She’s gorra dog, which ain’t ideal . . . yes, I reckon I’ll be able to accommodate your ward.’
‘Thanks very much, Mrs Roberts,’ Uncle Max said, his voice positively oozing sincerity. Debbie heard the chair creak as he got heavily to his feet. ‘I’m fond of me lady friend’s girl so I shan’t leave any stone unturned to find her, and it’s a real comfort to know she can stay here with me.’
Oh, I bet it is, Debbie thought savagely, shooting back into the kitchen and picking Baby up once more. And it would all start over again, the pinching and patting, and pretending to be jolly old Uncle Max, whilst all the time he was really dirty old Uncle Max. Without her mother to protect her . . . but it did not bear thinking about. She must get away, and get away fast.
The two adults crossed the hall and began to mount the stairs, Mrs Roberts saying that she would show him his room. ‘And then if you come down to the parlour again there’ll be a nice cup of tea and a tray of biscuits waiting,’ she said comfortably. ‘And then I’ll introduce you to me other lodger.’
But Debbie, heart thumping, was preparing to leave. She went to the dresser drawer in which Mrs Roberts had placed the emergency ration cards and tucked them into her pocket. Then she snatched her coat and Baby’s from the hooks on the back of the door. She was halfway across the kitchen when she heard the landlady descending the stairs, alone. ‘Mrs Roberts? I’m off to see if me pal’s home yet; I dunno what time I’ll be back. I might spend the night at her place if she’s late, but I’ll pop in tomorrow, around ten o’clock.’
Mrs Roberts’s flushed face appeared round the door, looking doubtful. ‘Tomorrow’s me mornin’ for the WI canteen,’ she observed. ‘I won’t be in till noon, mebbe later, but the key’s under the third plant pot on the left. Does this mean you’re goin’ to miss my evenin’ meal?’ She dropped her voice to a husky whisper. ‘The butcher halfway up Heyworth Street is me brother-in-law an’ he’s slipped me a pound of liver this morning; I gorran onion, an’ all. You don’t want to miss liver ’n’ onions.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best to get back,’ Debbie said untruthfully, though her mouth watered at the mention of liver and onions. ‘But you know how it is, Mrs Roberts; if Gwen misses the train . . . or if it’s late . . .’ The name had slipped out and Debbie felt a pang of pain and guilt, then scolded herself as she said goodbye to the landlady and headed, with Dusty at her heels, across the back yard into the jigger. It had been natural to use the name of her oldest and best friend; she had no need to reproach herself.
And presently, hurrying along towards the Scotland Road, Debbie began to feel less hunted and more optimistic. She would go back to the Roberts house very late and leave very early next morning, before Uncle Max could possibly be up. She was beginning to feel very angry with him, which was better than being terrified. How dared he say he had lost the woman he meant to marry; he could only mean Jess and it seemed doubly unfair that he should make such a claim when Jess was unable to refute it. And she was certain that it would never have occurred to her mother to make Uncle Max her guardian; why should it? Her mother had not expected to die and she was ten years younger than him. What was more, Jess knew Debbie disliked the man, and so far as Debbie knew her mother had never consulted a solicitor. No, it was just a ploy on Uncle Max’s part to try to get her into his clutches, and she would have none of it. They had told her at the centre that she could return next day. Now that she had no lodgings, she would need all the help she could get.
In her arms, the baby began to wriggle and coo, and suddenly Debbie felt almost happy. Moving in with Mrs Roberts had been too easy; now she was learning how tough life could be and she decided it was better that way. Less time to think, less time to brood, and more time to be herself. Whistling beneath her breath, Debbie headed for Lavender Court. She glanced at a clock above a chemist’s shop. It was already half past six and she had been told Biddy worked nights so she had best get a move on.
It was a fair way from Huskisson Street to Lavender Court and she might not have made it in time save for a fortunate coincidence. She had paused by the window of a baker’s shop to gaze longingly at a display of cakes when the door opened and someone emerged eating a fat currant bun. Debbie was beginning to move away when a voice spoke her name. ‘Debbie! Oh, my God, I thought you was dead! So you weren’t in the shelter, after all? I come along to help in the rescue work . . . we found poor Gwen, but there weren’t a sign of you.’
It was Dicky. Debbie gave him a tremulous smile and felt Dusty’s nose bump into her calf. He always walked close and had not expected her to stop again so suddenly. ‘Oh, Dicky, I’m awful sorry about Gwen,’ she said. ‘We were all in the shelter, Baby and Dusty and me. A great slab of concrete stopped us from getting squashed – and they managed to get us out, though it took ages. The dog saved us, to tell you the truth; he was a stray but he’s mine now.’
‘An’ is the baby a stray, an’ all?’ Dicky said humorously. He put out a tentative finger and touched the baby’s soft, pink cheek. ‘I disremember you had a baby with you when I dropped you off at the cinema.’
‘No. The baby was in the shelter, up the same end as me and the dog. I’ve kept her with me – the baby, I mean – because I didn’t know what else to do, but I’ve found out who the mother is and I’m taking her round to Lavender Court right now. I – I don’t live in Wykeham Street any more because the house was bombed; I’m lodging in Huskisson Street. If you could give me a lift to Lavender Court, I’d be awful grateful.’
‘Sure I will,’ Dicky said. ‘I say, did you come across a feller called Pete when you gorrout of the shelter? He and meself were working together but I had to get back to the yard.’
‘Yes, he helped to get us out,’ Debbie exclaimed. ‘In fact, Pete’s a friend of my mam’s . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears despite her resolution not to cry in front of Dicky. ‘I should say he
was
a friend of my mam’s, I suppose. She – she died soon after they got me out. Pete took me to the hospital but there weren’t nothing anyone could do.’
Dicky had taken her arm and was leading her towards his van but now he drew her to a halt and patted her hand. ‘Debbie, I’m so sorry. I never met your mam but Gwen often talked about her; she sounded like a grand lady. But how will you manage? You’re only a kid when all’s said and done. If Gwen were alive . . . but it’s no good wishin’.’
‘I’ll manage all right,’ Debbie said, trying to sound brisk and self-confident and failing dismally. ‘That feller, Pete Solomon, he’s paid for my lodgings for the next two weeks and I’m sure by then I’ll have sorted something out. I’m just praying that my factory on Long Lane, the one that makes wireless parts, hasn’t been destroyed.’
‘It hasn’t; I were by there earlier and it’s still standin’, and the gals are still workin’ away there,’ Dicky said confidently. ‘No need to get in a state, though – when you’re ready to go back just tell ’em what happened. Experienced workers is gettin’ rarer, what wi’ kids being evacuated and parents trekkin’ into the country. Oh aye, you’ll be fine, just you see.’
By now they had reached the van. Dicky opened the door and ushered her, the baby and the dog into the passenger seat, then went round and slid behind the wheel. He went to pull the self-starter, then looked with distaste at the sticky bun he still held. ‘Think your dog might fancy this? I can’t drive and eat at the same time; the old van is temperamental, to say the least.’
Dusty’s face, as the bun descended in his direction, wore a look of such blissful anticipation that both Dicky and Debbie laughed. ‘I think he’d eat anything you offered him,’ Debbie said, but was pleased when the dog took the bun with care and delicacy, then lay down in the well of the van to enjoy the treat.
They reached Lavender Court just before seven. Dicky dropped her and the dog off, then waved a cheery goodbye and drove away. Debbie found the house, but after repeated knocking realised that no one could be at home. As she turned away, the door of the next house shot open and a fat young woman, with hair in paper curlers and a pronounced squint, asked her who she was after.
‘I’m looking for someone called Biddy,’ Debbie said carefully. ‘I was told she’d probably be in around this time.’
The fat woman sniffed disparagingly. ‘I ain’t seen ’er for a couple o’ days,’ she said, sounding almost pleased. ‘She were a bad girl, you know.’ She sniffed again and Debbie longed to advise her to use a handkerchief. ‘Well, I reckon the court’s better off wi’out the likes of ’er. I reckon she and the brat were in that shelter on the Scottie what gorra direct hit. Miz O’Shea were there and she were killed; Mr Perkins telled me so.’
Debbie stared at her, not knowing what to say. The callousness of it! Not a word of regret or pity, only a sort of smug satisfaction because the speaker herself was alive. She opened her mouth to say as much, then turned away, hugging the baby tightly as tears formed in her eyes. She took a couple of stumbling steps towards the arch through which she could see the sunlit street, then she heard a shriek like a steam engine’s whistle, and stopped short. A girl was running towards her, a slim girl with thickly curling black hair and a face white as paper. She hurled herself at Debbie and clutched at the baby, saying as she did so: ‘It
is
, it really is! Oh, my darling, my little darling, I never t’ought to see you alive again! They said . . . oh, dear God, they said everyone in that shelter was kill’t stone dead! Oh, Clodagh, Clodagh, your mammy loves you more’n anything else in the whole world, so she does!’
Debbie had handed the baby over – well, Biddy had more or less snatched her – as soon as she realised who the girl was, and now felt herself being violently hugged. ‘Oh, alannah, I’m so grateful to you, I just don’t know what to say,’ Biddy said, rubbing ineffectually at the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I’ve spent the whole day searching, an’ I were just turnin’ into the court when I see’d someone standin’ on Miz O’Shea’s doorstep. Me heart began to beat double time and then I saw you turnin’ away wit’ the baby in your arms, and I just knew it were my little girl and you’d saved her. Oh, me darlin’, I dunno who you are or how you come by Clodagh, but Mary, Mother of Jesus, you’re a saint, so you are!’ She glanced towards the door. ‘Will you come in, so’s I can thank you proper? I’ll make you a meal if there’s anything in the place that you fancy. Miz O’Shea were kill’t so there won’t be no one to object, and maybe you can tell me what happened and how you saved my baby . . .’
Debbie was suddenly filled with happiness. She had somehow imagined that Biddy would be an over-dressed, over-painted, smart woman, like the ones who paraded up and down outside Lime Street station. But this was a girl very little older than herself, with clear skin and bright eyes. And she was so fond of the baby! Debbie had known she must leave Clodagh with her natural mother whether she liked her or not, but having met Biddy she had no qualms. Even Dusty seemed to approve, for he sniffed at the girl’s skirt then wagged his tail, grinning up at her as though he had known her all his life.
‘It’s awful kind of you,’ Debbie said. ‘But now that we’ve met I’ve – I’ve a sort of proposition to put to you. It’s – it’s a bit of a favour . . . I dare say I’ve got a nerve to ask, but . . .’