She's Leaving Home (56 page)

After a minute Daniel realised that a tubby middle-aged man waiting for the bus was examining him and his pamphlet with undisguised curiosity. The man was small and unshaven and had no coat, but his eyes were sharp.

‘Whatcha got there?’ The accent was ripely Liverpool.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ Daniel replied politely. You never knew who you might be speaking to in wartime. Mary was nowhere to be seen. He showed the man the pamphlet, then took it back and flicked over the pages to pencil-marked passages. He read aloud:

‘The Labour Party is a Socialist Party and proud of it. Its ultimate purpose is the establishment of the Socialist Commonwealth of Great Britain – free, democratic, efficient, progressive, public spirited.’

‘You a socialist?’ the man asked. His tone was friendly.

‘I’m not sure,’ Daniel mused. ‘I suppose in one sense everybody is, these days. Our gallant Russian allies have shown that ordinary folk, what Marx called the proletariat, could take power and govern themselves.’

‘Nah,’ the man sniffed. ‘Dictatorship of the proletariat? Load o’ rubbish. Dictatorship of the bosses, more like. Only they’re different bosses, that’s all. Gimme our system any day. We Brits can give socialism a human face, given half a chance.’

‘Yes, but –’ As ever, Daniel found himself enjoying the argument for its own sake. ‘It’s difficult, isn’t it? A chap who says he’s
not
a socialist these days is tantamount to saying he wants government as of old by the upper classes. And I don’t. Those were the leaders who appeased Hitler, and who brought ruin and hunger during the Depression to this city and my family.
They
didn’t suffer, much – the nobs disported themselves at the Adelphi and on the Cunard and White Star liners, while we queued up at soup kitchens.’

‘Swilled champagne poured by stewards on ten bob a week, slept in beds made up by chambermaids paid even less,’ the man agreed. ‘Oh, aye. I know all about that. I was one of those waiters before the war.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘But you still say you’re not a socialist?’

‘I just wonder,’ Daniel murmured, and indicated the pamphlet, ‘if they go too far. Throwing the baby out with the bathwater. We must have private property and enterprise. The state can’t do everything, and I don’t want it to try. And fail.’

The man began to remonstrate. Daniel listened, then interjected. ‘You seem to know a lot about it. You involved in politics?’

The stolid figure filled out with pride. ‘You could say. I was having you on a bit: I know that manifesto. I live over by Ormskirk. I’m a Labour Party member – humble as you like, but I get to do my bit.’

‘Ormskirk? Who’s your candidate?’

‘A Mr James Harold Wilson. Brainy bloke, spent the war in the Ministry of Supply. Yorkshireman. And we’ll get him elected, you’ll see.’

The bus drew up and the man, still declaiming, climbed on board. As the vehicle drove off he waved and called back at Daniel: ‘It don’t matter what you think! Just make sure you vote the right way –’

Daniel watched the bus churn smokily up the hill and stroked his moustache. His face had a wistful expression.

‘Hi! Sorry I’m late.’ Suddenly Mary was there, a perfumed flurry, pert hat on head, dressed to go out. ‘Goodness, isn’t it warm? I didn’t need my furs.’

‘I’ll carry them for you,’ he offered, awkwardly, and went to shove the pamphlet in his pocket.

‘What’re you reading?’ She pounced, alert and inquisitive.

He showed her. ‘Hot off the presses. I thought I’d better find out what we’re going to vote for.’

They began to walk up the street. ‘Some of it I can swallow quite easily,’ he continued. ‘It says Socialism is to be applied gradually, with public ownership of fuel, power, inland transport and iron and steel as the priorities. But you won’t like the last bit, Mary.’

‘I will,’ she countered firmly. ‘I shall do my utmost to get them into office. No virtue in being a stick-in-the-mud.’

He halted, took out the pamphlet and pointed.
‘Labour believes in the nationalisation of the land, and ivill work for it.
Precisely how much land does your family own, Mary?’

‘Lord, couldn’t tell you offhand. Twenty thousand acres in Scotland for a start, and the farm in Suffolk’s about two thousand and there’s more in the Staffordshire moorlands. And did you say iron and steel? We have a steel mill in Warley and a couple of pits in Derbyshire. Done well out of the war, to be honest – munitions means coining money.’ She shrugged. ‘They’ll pay compensation. Daddy’ll take the cash and go rough it in the Bahamas. He’s often said he’d retire after the war.’

‘What if there’s no compensation – or not much?’

‘They couldn’t do that.’

‘They could. If they’ve a big enough majority in Parliament. They’d say funds were too short, or promise deferred payments or whatever. This is politics, Mary, not barter at face value.’

She looked uncomfortable then tossed her head. ‘If we’re going to be poor we’ll have to get used to it. I’ve learned such a lot in the last few years, Danny: how to lay a fire and keep it lit, how to make omelettes with dried egg and eat peas out of a tin. How to drive a lorry, though I wasn’t awfully good at it! I mend stockings I’d have thrown away and am proud of my darning skills, and I get on famously with lots of amazing types I would never have met. I’ll cope.’

Daniel was dubious. ‘People like you will find a means to preserve your position. Of that I’m certain. Maybe you should stand for Parliament yourself.’

Her laughter rang out, a merry peal which cut him to the quick. ‘What, me? Gracious, no. That’s no job for a lady. Look what a fool Nancy Astor has made of herself. Anyway, I shall be off soon.’ She put her hand to her mouth.

‘He’s coming home.’

‘Yes. As soon as he’s fit to travel.’

‘It had to happen sooner or later, I suppose.’

They climbed the hill in step, but Danny knew he would not be listening to a note of Kathleen
Ferrier.

‘I have made up my mind, Danny, to be content with my lot. I took my marriage vows freely and though I’ve been hopeless at keeping them while he was away, I must make the effort now. Rupert should be back for Victory Day, whenever that is – it can’t be long. We shall spend it in London.’

‘Not here?’

‘Not here. No.’

The news from the front became more strident and steadily dottier, as if the Allies could at last ridicule the enemy they had so grimly feared. When Admiral Engel, second in command of the North Sea fleet, was captured at Buxtenhude, reported Reuter’s, he was well prepared by his wife. In his five suitcases she had meticulously packed wines, food, newly pressed clothes and 500 cigarettes. On 23 April, St George’s Day, the British Second Army’s mixed bag of captures included a circus with two bears and two elephants; Marlene Dietrich’s sister; two genuine werewolves; 500 German WRENs in bell-bottomed trousers, and another admiral. The bears had been wounded, but no further explanation emerged about the ‘werewolves’ which remained a mystery. In Italy the enemy fled. And the Red Army was within two miles of the centre of Berlin, fighting street by street, whole districts ablaze.

Then, quite suddenly, it was over. On Saturday 5 May newspapers throughout the country showed German girls in tears as 100,000 prisoners of war were taken in one day by the British. Hitler was dead, the brutalised bodies of Mussolini and his mistress hung upside down from a Roman lamppost. As Admiral Dönitz and Field-Marshal Keitel led the surrender party, the scale of their defeat and their ignorance of it were made manifest. Dutifully Montgomery set forth his terms based on a detailed plan of the front line. ‘When they looked at the map they were shocked,’ he commented dryly to
The Times.
‘They did not know. Von Freidberg burst into tears.’

But at home confusion reigned, not least because of the weekend. On the Monday night a few tentative bonfires were lit in Everton and Anfield but were extinguished by the National Fire Service as still forbidden. On the drizzly Tuesday morning, 8 May, Daniel, Annie and Simon with many others arrived for work to find the gates shut and padlocked and a notice pinned to them with a border of red, white and blue bunting.

The workforce milled excitedly around and questioned each other. In the distance a band could be heard playing ‘Tipperary’. A man rounded the corner, his arms clutching a large stuffed effigy of Hitler. After him marched a child with a battered petrol tin suspended like a drum from thin shoulders, beating time vigorously with two sticks. From behind a cloud the sun emerged and a cheer went up, ragged at first, then with whoops and screams; the younger men and women clasped hands and began to run towards the city centre.

Simon Rotblatt read the few words then let out a yell. ‘It’s today! Victory in Europe! Today and tomorrow. Mr Churchill will broadcast to the nation this afternoon. We’ll be able to hear it from the Town Hall. It’s over! Oh, dear God, it’s over!’

And he jumped around, and kissed every woman in reach including the older hands who dimpled and blushed. Annie watched him in amazement: kind as he was, Simon was not normally demonstrative. As he lurched towards her she sidestepped closer to Daniel who appeared dazed.

Annie decided to take charge. She held out her hands and took to her right Simon’s, to her left, Daniel’s. ‘I have the two finest-looking Jewish boys in Liverpool,’ she announced to nobody in particular. ‘And we are going to celebrate. Together.’

Their path took them past the Cathedral where a throng had gathered, unplanned, from the dawn hours: thousands of ordinary citizens who spontaneously wished to give thanks to God. In the absence of the Bishop who had inexplicably gone to Plymouth, Canon Soulby flapped about for a while then admitted them for improvised services every hour, the packed congregations calling out the
names of hymns they wanted to sing. Somehow the Canon, a lump in his throat, managed a short sermon: ‘Our cause prevailed by our doing the plain and obvious thing – playing a straight bat.’ After a struggle the flags of every Allied nation, the Dominions and Colonies were unfurled in the centre of the nave. In the War Memorial Transept people quietly placed slips with the names of loved ones lost until the little chapel seemed covered in small white butterflies.

As the sun rose high the city broke out in a riot of colour. Annie squealed with delight as shopkeepers hammered up beribboned V signs across windows and doors, some from the rafters to the ground. Bunting and streamers appeared as from nowhere; if they turned back to look, a street monochrome grey as they had passed through it had become a blaze of patriotic hues as they reached the end. Rain threatened yet few walkers carried umbrellas, and shelter was willingly given during showers. Whisky and gin, bourbon and rum were repeatedly offered, so that by the time the three friends reached the Pier Head they were distinctly tipsy.

And there they gaped: from the Landing Stage as far as the eye could see, flags had broken out on tugs, ships, ferry boats, on cranes and dockside warehouses, a fantastic and merry sight. A favourite banner was a composite of the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack. Every ship’s hooter was in play, each to outdo the other. ‘Marvellous,’ breathed Annie, and felt ready to cry.

In front of the Royal Liver Building a drum-head service was in progress. Annie slowed, and tied her scarf around her head. The preacher, Reverend Cocup of the Royal Navy, was reminding the respectful worshippers that the conflict had not ended, especially at sea. The band struck up the sailors’ hymn:

To Annie’s consternation she heard Daniel’s voice raised in unison though he did not know the words well. Irritated, she nudged him. The hymn may mention only God, not Christ, but it was Christian and Jews were not supposed to join in. He ignored her and sang on. Fortunately it finished quickly. Before she had time to remonstrate the National Anthem struck up. Here there could be no debate. Backs straightened, hats were off, arms snapped to sides, salutes were held firmly at brows. The lusty sound lifted over the quay and floated across the waters:

The impromptu event finished with three noisy ‘Hurrahs!’ though it was not clear whether they were intended for the King and Queen, the sailors, soldiers and airmen or everyone in general; a passing cargo vessel let out a great hoot which made everybody jump, then laugh, then disperse, chattering gaily.

‘To the Town Hall. We can grab a good spot.’ Annie had rediscovered the bossier elements of her nature. The boys seemed content to tag along in streets awash with happy people. They came into the square then settled on the steps of the Bank of England building nearby.

Annie hugged herself and gazed about, thrilled at the banners and flags, but could not avoid noticing also the boarded-up windows, the blackened façades pitted by shrapnel, the burned-out roofs
open to the sky. This part of the city had been ravaged, though not quite as badly as the devastated docks and railheads. Only Herculean efforts had kept everything moving. Nowhere in central Liverpool had emerged unscathed. How much the war had destroyed: the burden of reconstruction would be horrendous. And it was not only buildings and the bodies of those caught in them which had been mangled beyond recognition, but their own hopes and prospects.

The loss was permanent. These vanished years could not be replaced, years when they should have been rearing families and arranging photographs on the mantelpiece. She sighed inwardly. Some of the old conventions and assumptions would be re-established very quickly, including the curbs on female ambition and independence. Once the men were demobbed they would take precedence for employment, naturally. It would be back to the kids and the kitchen for women.