‘Yes, it’s the same for us,’ Millie said. ‘I wonder when rationing will actually stop, though? I was talkin’ to one o’ me neighbours yesterday and she said she didn’t see how it could stop, not all of a sudden like, because there just ain’t the food to hand round, is there? And I reckon it’ll be a while before the merchant fleet can stand down as fighting ships and turn themselves back into food carriers.’
Debbie pulled a face. ‘Considering they’ve just cut the bacon ration and we only get one measly ounce of lard a week, I don’t imagine things will get better for a while,’ she observed. ‘It’s a good thing summer’s starting because the troops will be coming home soon and they’ll have to be fed. Dicky says they get plenty to eat in the forces, though it isn’t very exciting food. Apparently the canteens go in for lots of potatoes and sawdust sausages, and suet puddings and stuff like that. So I imagine the fellers will be pretty dismayed when they see the sort of rations the rest of us get.’
‘And when they get home we’ll lose our jobs,’ Millie said gloomily. ‘Come to that, I s’pose a good few of the factories will close down altogether. No one’s going to want uniforms now the war’s over, and since the wireless sets we make go into aeroplanes, they aren’t going to need them either. I know the government is promising to build new houses, or repair bomb-damaged ones, but that’ll take ages, so where’ll all these fellers live, eh? Oh, I know lots of women have crammed in with their mums or grandmas, and farmed their kids out, but now we’re at peace folks are goin’ to expect that things will go back to normal. Men like to be the boss in their own homes and I’ve not met one yet who got on with his motherin-law well enough to want to live under the same roof.’
The woman working on the other side of Debbie shook an admonitory finger at the two girls. ‘Don’t be so bleedin’ miserable,’ she said bracingly. ‘We’ve won the bleedin’ war, haven’t we? Then everything’s bound to be all right. Old Winnie promised us blood, toil, tears and sweat, and God knows, we’ve had them in plenty. But now we’ve won the good time will start, ’cos if it don’t . . .’
‘Good old Allie,’ Debbie said, beaming at the other woman. ‘You’re right, of course, we must all look on the bright side. It’ll be grand to have the men back, even if they do want to take our jobs!’
‘If you aren’t going to wear your pink dress, then I wouldn’t mind a borrow of it. I’m that fed up wit’ my own blue one that I could scream. Well? Are you wearin’ it or aren’t you?’
Debbie raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. Biddy sounded truculent, not at all like her usual, happy-go-lucky self, and why on earth should she want to borrow her pink dress? It was a fairly new garment and she said as much, adding: ‘And anyway, I mean to wear it myself. For once the weather is really good and Millie bought a length of pink ribbon the other day and gave me half, so I can tie back my hair with that. I’ll look quite presentable for a change; I just hope Dicky is impressed.’
Biddy shot her a quick glance out of the corners of her eyes. ‘Are you serious about Dicky?’ she asked curiously. ‘If he asked you, would you marry him? Only sometimes you don’t seem all that keen.’
Debbie had managed to acquire a small lipstick which she was guarding jealously from the other residents of No. 4. Now she got it out of her cracked and elderly handbag and began to apply it gingerly to her lips, gazing at herself earnestly in the small mirror as she did so. She thought the lipstick improved her and she rather admired the shine on her long chestnut hair, though she envied Biddy her mop of dark curls.
‘Well? Didn’t you hear what I said?’
‘Yes, I heard,’ Debbie said mildly. ‘Dicky’s very nice but he’s the only boy I’ve ever been out with and because I only see him when he’s on leave I don’t know him awfully well. I don’t think he’ll ask me – to marry him, I mean – but if he did I reckon I’d say it were a bit soon and I’d like time to make up my mind.’
As Debbie turned away from the mirror, Biddy took her place. Both girls were wearing old clothes since there was a deal of preparation to do before the party in the Court could start. Biddy had on a dress which had once been cream but after countless washings had degenerated to a sort of dirty grey. The hem dipped and the bodice was far too tight, but with Biddy clothes seemed scarcely to matter. Everyone’s attention always focused on her bright, vivacious little face, and Debbie thought, enviously, that her friend could go to a party in rags and still be the belle of the ball. Putting away her lipstick, she went over to the window and peered out, then turned back with a chuckle. ‘Chloe’s out there playing hopscotch with two or three of her friends. I can see her wagging her finger, laying down the law, even though she must be the youngest.’
This won a grin from Biddy. ‘Aye, she’s bossy, just like I were meself at her age,’ she said, turning towards the bedroom door. ‘Better go down and start making sandwiches else we shan’t have the tea prepared by four o’clock.’
As the two girls hurried down the stairs and crossed the hall, Debbie asked: ‘Is that young feller you’re so keen on coming to the street party, or can’t he get away? Padraig, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, him! I dunno what he’s doin’ but I dare say he’ll turn up some time,’ Biddy said airily as they entered the kitchen. ‘And I’m not particularly keen on him, though he is on me, poor sap.’ She raised her voice, addressing Mrs Batley, who was masterminding the kitchen activities. ‘What’ll we do, Mrs B? I’m a dab hand at making sandwiches, or shellin’ hard boiled eggs, or chopping cress. So what’ll it be?’
By half past three the trestle tables borrowed from the school were laid with the long rolls of newsprint, which looked very like a nice tablecloth, and had the plates of food set out on them. A couple of boys had been provided with leafy branches and told to wave them across the food to discourage flies, but not until the net curtains with which Mrs Batley had covered everything edible were removed. By now, Biddy and Debbie were dressed in their best, and Chloe looked positively angelic in a white cotton dress covered in pink roses. She was terribly excited, hopping from one foot to the other and declaring over and over that she wanted to sit next to Freddy Miller, and to have the red cracker for her very own. Mrs Batley, passing with a huge platter of sausage rolls, overheard this pronouncement and dug her elbow into Debbie’s ribs. ‘She’s going to be just like her mam: a real devil for the lads,’ she hissed. ‘Any feller who takes those two on will have his work cut out, I’m tellin’ you.’
Debbie smiled. Sometimes she wondered if Biddy would take her daughter to Ireland one day to visit her grandparents and all those uncles and aunts to whom Biddy occasionally referred, but she thought it unlikely. Biddy never mentioned doing such a thing, and when Debbie had said it was unfair to deprive grandparents of their grandchild’s company she had stared at her for a moment looking honestly puzzled before replying airily: ‘Me parents have a grosh o’ grandchilder and don’t even know that Chloe exists. In fact, since I’ve never writ home once, they probably think I’m dead ’n’ all. And a fat lot they’d care,’ she had ended.
Debbie had been shocked, but on thinking it over had decided that Biddy had probably not spoken the truth. After all, only a couple of years before, her friend had claimed to be sending her parents money. And I’m sure she did send them something, Debbie told herself, returning to the kitchen to carry out one of the great enamel jugs of homemade lemonade. It was not, of course, made with real lemons – citrus fruit was just a name to most folk – and contained no sugar, but was made up of a virulent yellow substance known as lemon powder and a good few crushed saccharin tablets. Ah well, Biddy does like to dramatise herself, and Mrs Batley’s right: darling Chloe gets more like her mam every day.
By the time four o’clock arrived, the children were taking their places round the table, whilst the adults milled around making sure that everyone got their fair share. Dusty, who adored Chloe, sat very close to the child, and she fed him scraps whenever she thought no one was looking. One of the men had a mouth organ and another an old ukulele, and when it was suggested that the children might like to contribute to the entertainment Chloe stood up at once and, accompanied by the mouth organ, sang an old Irish ballad which Biddy had taught her. After that, several other children recited poems or sang songs, and this kept them happily occupied whilst the adults cleared away the empty plates, disposed of the spotted and stained newsprint, and folded away the trestle tables so that they might organise some games. Dicky turned up with a couple of pals from his airfield just as the games were starting and the three of them were a great help, organising races and providing threepenny bits for the winners.
When at last the children’s party was over, Mrs Batley agreed to babysit and everyone surged out of the court in a happy, laughing crowd, making their way on to Scotland Road. Chloe had objected strongly to being left behind, only consenting to go up to bed when Debbie said that she might take Dusty with her. ‘You can have a little party, just the two of you,’ she said, slipping a couple of sausage rolls and some iced fairy cakes into a bag and handing it to the little girl. ‘And when you’ve finished the food you can both sleep in my bed, for a special treat. I’ll share with your mammy, love.’
Dicky linked arms with Biddy and Debbie and led them into the shouting, flag-waving throng, but the crowd was too thick to allow speedy progress and dusk was already falling before they reached the vicinity of St George’s Hall and saw the first of the fireworks burst in many-coloured splendour above the plateau. Presently, Debbie realised that she was alone, for the constant movement of the crowd had separated her from her friends, and when she spotted Millie, clutching her mam’s arm and waving a gloriously large Union Jack, she fought her way across to her to exchange greetings and news of their respective parties.
Debbie had met Millie’s mam several times and knew how close an interest she took in her daughter’s friends, so she was not surprised when Mrs Grimble said curiously: ‘Why’s you all on your lonesome, Deb? Where’s that nice young Mr Barnes I see’d you with when we met outside the Derby cinema? I thought you’d be with ’im on such a day.’
‘I was, only we got separated by the crowd,’ Debbie explained. ‘Isn’t it grand to see the street lights? And St George’s Hall, all lit up? Dicky and his pals have a share in an old banger – it’s an Austin Seven, actually – and he told us earlier how they had ripped the cardboard shutters off the lights and how grand it made them feel to drive along the country roads with the beams revealing every little rabbit who crossed their path.’
Mrs Grimble smiled at her. ‘You’re right, it’s a real treat to be able to see where you’re going,’ she said. ‘Now, how about coming back to our place for some fish and chips? I’ve got a cousin what fishes out of Seaforth Sands an’ he give me a rare big old cod and a pile o’ spuds from his allotment. He and his wife will come round if they can get, but there’s plenty for all and you’d be very welcome.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Debbie said, meaning it. When she had left the house Chloe had still been extremely excited, and Debbie realised that the longer she stayed out the more likely she was to find the child asleep in her bed on her return, and no longer bouncing up and down and shouting. She thought, furthermore, that if Biddy got home first it would do her good to have to cope with the child, though she knew it was likelier that Biddy would be back even later than herself. She did feel a twinge of conscience as she left the plateau with the Grimbles, for when all was said and done she supposed that since she had arrived here with Biddy and Dick she should also have left with them. But one glance at the huge crowd, everyone linking arms as they sang
There’ll be blue birds over / The white cliffs of Dover / Tomorrow, just you wait and see
, told her that searching would be fruitless. She clung tightly to Millie’s arm, therefore, determined to enjoy herself, despite feeling somewhat aggrieved. After all, Dicky was meant to be
her
friend, yet she had a shrewd suspicion that he would have managed to hang on to pretty, vivacious Biddy, even though he had let go of herself.
The family fish supper to which Mrs Grimble had invited her turned out to be a very large party indeed. There were several young men who had come ashore from the various ships lying in the docks and one of these set Debbie’s heart thumping, for as soon as she heard him speak she thought she knew him. ‘How you doin’, cobber?’ he said in a slow, easy drawl, addressing another man. ‘I’ve not set eyes on you for a while. Anything new?’
Debbie’s heart missed a beat, then went into overtime. The young man was tall and fair, and very tanned, and for one giddy, enchanting moment Debbie thought that Pete Solomon had found her at last. Then the young man, who had had his back to her, turned round and she saw at once that he was not her one-time rescuer. Nevertheless, she introduced herself, intrigued by his accent which, even after four years, she recognised as being the same as Pete’s. He told her his name was Ralph Middleton, and that he came from somewhere called Canberra.
‘Is that in the south of England?’ Debbie asked politely, and then felt foolish when he grinned quizzically at her and told her that she was only about six thousand miles out; he came from Australia.
As soon as he said it, Debbie felt a surge of excitement. Australia! For the first time, she began to put two and two together. She had wondered how Pete had come to know her mother but had simply thought he must have met her through her work at the hospital; perhaps he had been visiting a patient on her ward, perhaps he had even been a patient himself. Now, however, her brain was trying to tell her that Australia was the link . . . but there was so much going on, so many people who wanted to celebrate . . . oh, if only she could think straight!