‘Oh, alannah, if there’s anything I can do for you . . . but I don’t know your name, and you’ve done me the best turn anyone could! I’m Biddy Callaghan. Who’s you?’
‘I’m Debbie Ryan, and the truth is I need somewhere to live. My home was flattened and my mother was killed during the last raid, and though I’m in temporary lodgings I thought . . . well, your house is still standing and poor Mrs O’Shea’s room will be vacant right now, so . . .’
‘You want to move in! Sure and we’d welcome you wit’ open arms, me and Siobhan and Eanna. As you can see, a bomb has blowed all the glass out of the windows but there’s a feller comin’ to fix that tomorrow or the day after and the weather ’tis fine, so it is. As for rent, don’t bother about that, the t’ree of us will put a bit extra in the kitty. After all, you saved me baby’s life, and we’d already decided not to tell Mr Capper that t’ings had changed. Why, so long as we pay the rent every Monday mornin’, I’m sure he’ll be satisfied. So you needn’t worry about your share, not after what you did for my baby.’
‘I can pay my way; I’m in a good job and earning a good wage,’ Debbie said quickly. ‘And I can move in right away because I – I paid my landlady in advance, so there’ll be nothing owing. So if it really is all right with you and your friends I’ll get my stuff and be with you later this evening.’
Even as she said the words, it occurred to Debbie that she might be moving into what her mother had always called ‘a house of ill repute’. The old man in the shelter had said Mrs O’Shea let her rooms to bad girls, and the woman who had recognised Clodagh had said that Biddy worked nights, which Debbie had supposed meant that she . . . well, that she walked the streets looking for likely fellers. Suppose she, Debbie, moved in and the other girls brought sailors into the house and expected her to – to do whatever it was that bad girls did? On the other hand, however, she simply dared not remain under the same roof as Uncle Max. She was still mulling over the problem when Biddy looked at her enquiringly. ‘What’s up?’ the Irish girl said baldly. ‘If you’re scared me pals won’t agree to your moving in, no need to worry about that. We meant to find another lodger anyway so if you really can pay a share of the rent – well, that would be just grand, so it would.’
Debbie took a deep breath. It was time to make some enquiries of her own. ‘Biddy, the old man in the shelter who told me about Mrs O’Shea said she let her rooms to bad girls. I can see you aren’t a bad girl, but – but what about the other two? And – and do they bring sailors back to the house? The woman who recognised Clodagh and told me where you lived said you worked nights, and I’d guessed Mrs O’Shea had the baby with her because you were working, and I sort of got the idea . . .’
Biddy stared at her, round-eyed, then a wide smile spread across her face. ‘Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch,’ she said. ‘I’m an usherette at the Forum cinema up on Lime Street.’ She clapped her hand over her mouth, then began to giggle through her fingers. ‘When I first come over to Liverpool it were because Eanna – she’s me cousin – said she could find me a job, which she did. I worked in a laundry until the baby came, then I took the job as an usherette so’s I could be wit’ Clodagh during the day and Eanna or Siobhan or even the old ’un – Mrs O’Shea, I mean – could give an eye to her, evenings. I expect you t’ink I’m a bad girl ’cos Clodagh’s a love child, but I’m not . . . I’ve never earned me livin’ from goin’ wit’ sailors and that. As for Siobhan and Eanna, they’d be shocked if they knew what you’ve been thinkin’. Eanna works – or worked rather – at the Bryant & May factory, making matches, only that went up in flames t’other night, and Siobhan, she’s the oldest of us – she’s twenty-two – works in the laundry on Smithdown Road. Honest to God, alannah, they’re real respectable girls. As for me, I didn’t ought to ha’ gone wit’ Padraig, but he swore we’d get wed . . . then he joined the army as soon as he knew I were in the family way and left me to manage as best I could. My mam and dad are country folk, real respectable, so I dussent go home . . . but that’s enough about me. Are you going to move in? Oh, you aren’t in any sort of trouble, are you?’
‘Yes please, I’d like to move in, and I’m not in any sort of trouble, not really,’ Debbie said immediately, feeling ashamed of her suspicions yet reluctant to admit to her own difficulties. ‘Only my landlady doesn’t like the dog and I’m only fifteen . . . I’d rather leave quietly without any argument.’
‘Ah, now I understand everythin’,’ Biddy said wisely. ‘Aye, I know the type: make you pay double up front, take your ration book and feed you on scrapings, then turn nasty when you moves out and try to say you’ve robbed ’em. Want any help wit’ getting your stuff out?’
Debbie laughed as she remembered her meagre possessions. ‘I don’t have much stuff to get, just half a dozen nappies, some undies, and a pillow case full of tinned fruit and veg.’ She looked hopefully at Biddy. ‘Know anyone who’d be willing to lend me a wheelbarrow? Or an old pram?’
‘I’ve got an old pram meself; picked it up a week ago in Paddy’s Market. You can borrow that,’ Biddy said. ‘And I’ll come along wit’ you to see there’s no trouble.’
Poor Debbie was beginning to feel guilty over the things she had hinted about Mrs Roberts. She told Biddy that she could manage perfectly well, but was glad of the older girl’s help when they reached the house. It was locked up, but she found the key in its hiding place and let herself in. Then she and Biddy packed all her possessions into the old perambulator, locked the door and pushed the key through the letter box. Then she scribbled a quick note saying that she had found a cousin who was going to give her a room, thanked Mrs Roberts for her hospitality, and set off once more for Lavender Court.
By the time summer was declining into autumn, Debbie felt as though she had lived in Lavender Court all her life. Originally, the girls had had a room each, but with more than seventy thousand people made homeless during the May blitz things had speedily changed and by the beginning of June six girls, all aged between fifteen and twenty-five, occupied the house. Biddy’s attic room contained herself and Debbie as well as Baby Clodagh and Dusty. To her mother’s initial dismay, the name Clodagh had been speedily shortened by the English girls to Chloe, for no Liverpudlian could resist the urge to simplify, but Biddy comforted herself with the reflection that Chloe would doubtless prefer the shorter version when she was in school and had to write her name on all her exercise books.
The girls thought themselves fortunate indeed, both to have a roof over their heads and to be in pleasant company. But at the beginning of September a new tenant came forward and, after discussing it, the girls agreed that Mrs Batley, a fat and friendly woman, should join their number. She suggested that she should act as a sort of house mother, doing the marketing, preparing the meals, laundering clothing, and of course looking after Chloe when her mother was working. She would pay a token rent since she had no means of support other than the small sum she earned as an evening cook in a nearby café, and very soon all the girls realised that they had found a treasure. Mrs Batley was a Geordie from Tyneside, whose accent had baffled the girls at first, though they soon grew accustomed. When a Liverpudlian would have said ‘chuck’, or ‘queen’, and Biddy would have said ‘alannah’, Mrs Batley would say ‘pet’. She had a laugh as raucous as a parrot’s screech, though her speaking voice had a pleasant lilt, and she had a good sense of humour, sharing many a laugh with the girls in her care, who soon began to look on Mrs Batley as a mother substitute, confiding both worries and small triumphs, and knowing that the older woman would do her best to advise them.
Debbie’s factory had not been hit. The firm were short of workers, so when Debbie introduced Eanna to her boss he was only too happy to take her on. In fact, by early September, several of the girls who shared the house in Lavender Court were assembling wirelesses alongside Debbie. Getting to and from work was becoming easier, too. Many roads were still cordoned off, but because of the number of factories on Long Lane, sufficient clearing had been done to allow the buses to ply to and from the city centre.
Debbie missed her mother dreadfully but her loss had forced independence upon her, and she found there was even satisfaction in deciding for herself what she should do with her day off, or upon which garment to spend her precious clothing coupons.
She speedily realised, however, that her hasty flight from Mrs Roberts’s home had been unfortunate in one respect, at least. Without the name of his airfield, she had been unable to fulfil her promise to write to Pete Solomon, and although she was certain he would have written to her as soon as he realised she couldn’t get in touch with him, she had removed herself from the only address he had for her. She determined to return to Huskisson Street at a time when Uncle Max was certain to be at work, and ask whether they had received any post addressed to herself. She was sure that they would have done so; after all, he had seemed very anxious to know what was going to happen to the baby, at least.
Accordingly, she and Biddy went round to Huskisson Street one quiet afternoon and knocked on the door. An old woman answered, telling them that she was Mrs Roberts’s mother, come on a visit, and was giving an eye to the premises while her daughter attended a meeting of the local WVS. Debbie explained her errand and the old woman asked them into the kitchen and fished half a dozen envelopes out of the dresser drawer. She threw them down on the table, rather ungraciously, telling Debbie to go through them, ‘because if I tells you there’s nothing for you, you’ll likely think I’m too old to know what’s what,’ she said nastily. Debbie muttered a disclaimer but went through the envelopes, none of which was addressed to her. Then she gave the old woman her most conciliating smile, saying as she did so: ‘No, there’s nothing here for me, and it’s been three months . . . perhaps I’ll try again in a few weeks’ time.’
‘If he ain’t written in three months, then likely he’s dead,’ the old woman said with spiteful frankness. ‘Well, that’s that then; good afternoon, both.’
The girls left; there was nothing else they could do, though Debbie could not help tears forming at the corners of her eyes and slipping down her cheeks. Pete had helped her at a bad time, and he had known her mother. She could not help feeling that there must have been a letter and that, had she remained with Mrs Roberts, she would have been able to keep in touch with her rescuer.
As they made their way slowly back down the street, Biddy gave Debbie’s arm a squeeze, then leaned over to chuck Baby Chloe under the chin. ‘Never mind, Deb,’ she said consolingly. ‘I’m a great believer in fate, I am, an’ I reckon that feller didn’t save you and my baby for nothin’. You’ll find each other one of these days, see if I ain’t right.’ And against all the odds, this cheered Debbie immeasurably. She smiled at Biddy and began to help her to push the perambulator, which was quite heavy since they had done a good deal of shopping as they went along.
‘I guess you’re right and we will meet again, because I won’t believe he’s dead,’ she said firmly. ‘Hey-ho, Chloe, your mammy and me’s bought apples so you’ll be having apple and custard for your dinner.’
In the kitchen of the house on Huskisson Street, Mrs Roberts’s mother pulled open the dresser drawer and fished out the three letters it still contained, opened the envelopes one by one, and began to read the contents. She had hoped for love letters so that she could despise the young girl with the baby even more than she did already, but they did not seem to be any such thing. In fact, she did not even read the last letter but simply pushed it into the stove with the others and smiled to herself as the flames devoured it. Me daughter ain’t a bleedin’ post office, she told herself grimly, sinking into the fireside chair. And when, presently, Mrs Roberts returned, the old woman regaled her with the story of her two visitors who had come for ‘them letters what you keep in the end drawer of the dresser’.
Mrs Roberts gave a relieved smile. ‘I’m that glad to be rid of the responsibility,’ she said. ‘I were rare bothered that I didn’t have no forwarding address so I couldn’t send ’em on. He were a nice young feller . . . yes, I’m glad she’s got her letters at last.’
Chapter Eleven
May 1943
It was a hot day, presaging what was to come, Nancy thought, wiping perspiration off her forehead with the piece of clean rag which she had tucked into the belt of her large striped overall. The month of May was well advanced, the rainy season was over and for a few blessed days or weeks, before the dry really got going, the temperature, though never cool or particularly pleasant, was easier to bear. A good time for visiting other stations, inviting friends over, even bathing without too much worry, for Andy had constructed a lagoon not too far from the house which filled up in the wet and did not dry out until the drought really got into its stride.
Nancy was making beef patties in the kitchen because Andy should be back from his latest muster this evening and the following day she had invited the McGuires over for a picnic, a swim in the lovely new lagoon, and then dinner and a chat. Like themselves, the McGuires had grown-up children, two boys who were in the army and were she believed in Italy, though Becky and Liz McGuire were still at home. Nancy had an eye on Becky, the older of the two, for her son Jacko; she knew they corresponded and she and Evie McGuire had often discussed how nice it would be if the two should fall in love and eventually marry. Jacko was only a year older than Becky and the two had always been good pals. Nancy sighed and began to cut large circles out of the huge sheet of pastry she had just made. The trouble was, no one could live another’s life for them, and lately Jacko’s letters had included casual references to some other girl with whom he was exchanging what appeared to be a lively correspondence.