She crossed over to the end house and began to air her grievances to Nan Wright, but Nan appeared irritated at having her sunbathing interrupted and stubbornly refused to agree with a word Aggie said.
‘We weren’t bombed when we were kids, were we, Mrs Donovan? We didn’t have rationing, either, and our dads weren’t away fighting in a terrible war.’
‘No,’ Aggie conceded grudgingly. Her behind still hurt where the football had hit it. ‘Even so …’
‘Seems to me,’ said Nan, ‘that kids bear up remarkably well, all things considering. They brighten up the street no end. I couldn’t stand it when most of ’em were evacuated and everywhere was dead quiet.’ Her only child, Ruby, then twelve, had died of scarlet fever in the last month of the last century, and Nan, already a widow, had lived on her own ever since.
Aggie, annoyed, decided to change tack. She put her hands on her hips and glared down at the woman. ‘I’m surprised at you, Nan Wright, sitting out so early in the morning,’ she said spitefully. ‘I’d’ve thought you’d have work to do inside.’ She hadn’t even got her teeth in, Aggie noticed, and there were gravy stains all down the
front
of her cotton pinny which hadn’t been near a drop of starch when it had last been washed. Her nearly bald head shone through the pink hairnet, and Aggie wondered why she bothered to put one on.
Nan Wright rubbed the bright purple knotted veins on her bare sagging legs and seemed unperturbed by the attack. ‘I have, but that sun’s too good to miss. I can always do me work later. When you get to seventy-two, some things don’t seem to matter as much as they used to.’
‘Huh!’ Aggie was seventy-four and as thin and small as Nan was big and fat. An eternally agitated woman, never still, she had the energy of someone half her age and an unquenchable interest in everybody else’s affairs. Almost universally loathed throughout the street, nevertheless she was listened to avidly as she relayed juicy bits of gossip she’d managed to pick up. Every now and then, she surprised the neighbours with acts of unexpected kindness and generosity.
Aggie returned home and decided to clean the back bedroom window, which would give her an entirely different aspect to view.
The street was silent for a while as the women made the beds, washed the breakfast dishes and carried out their other indoor tasks. Then, as if an alarm had been set, at least a dozen emerged to attend to the outside of their houses; to brush the pavement, clean the brass on the front door, wipe the window sills. Several came armed with buckets of warm suds and proceeded to scrub their steps, whitening the centre and neatly finishing off the edges with a border of red raddle. Ellis Evans, a big woman with a florid, unhealthy face, attacked the walls of her house with a yardbrush, rubbing them so hard that clouds of brick dust gently floated down.
Everyone waved to Nan, who sat watching this hive of activity with amusement. Ellis would brush her house
away
altogether one of these days. There’d been a time, not all that long ago, when she’d been just as house-proud herself, but nowadays she felt thankful just to be alive and able to enjoy God’s warm sunshine when so many people had died over the past two years, including several of her dear neighbours.
Most of the women went indoors, though a few remained, leaning on their mops or brooms talking to each other. Nan watched the steam rising gently from the washed steps as they quickly dried in the heat. Her own doorstep was a disgrace, but she didn’t care. If it got too bad, someone would offer to scrub it for her.
In the house next door, Mrs Singerman began to play a gentle tune on her piano, and Nan felt a wave of blissful happiness pass over her old body. What a beautiful world it was! What a pity folks couldn’t be left to get on with their own affairs without interference from monsters like Adolf Hitler! She closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep.
She was woken by Kitty Quigley shaking her by the shoulder. ‘Would you like me to get your shopping, luv?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind …’ Nan said the same thing every day when someone offered to do her shopping. She made to get up, but getting up was such a struggle nowadays.
‘Of course I don’t mind. Don’t budge,’ Kitty said kindly. ‘I’ll fetch your ration book off the mantelpiece.’
Nan leaned sideways to allow the girl to get past into the house. Kitty came back seconds later, tucking the ration book in her shopping bag. ‘Is there anything you particularly need?’
‘A pound of ’taters, and any sort of meat that’s going, as long as it’s not that whalemeat. It’s dead horrible, tastes like cod liver oil. Even Paddy O’Hara’s dog wouldn’t eat it when I offered him a bit.’
Kitty sighed. ‘Me dad doesn’t like it, either.’
‘Are you all right, Kitty? You don’t look at all yourself this morning.’ She was a pretty girl, Kitty Quigley – well, not so much a girl, she must be all of twenty-six or seven – with a mass of unruly brown curls and wide-apart hazel eyes that looked at you with an almost startling clarity. Although she never used a scrap of that make-up stuff, her cheeks and lips were a pale rosy pink. She was always dressed nice, even if it was only to go to the Marsh Lane shops: but then, thought Nan, the shops were as far as Kitty ever got, what with her dad being virtually housebound and needing constant attention since his accident on the docks. She was wearing her lemon-coloured cotton frock with white piping on the collar and the belt. A timid girl, though with a sunny personality, today she looked unusually wan and downcast.
‘I’m okay,’ she said in a tone of voice that told Nan she wasn’t okay at all. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can with the shopping. You can give me the money when I get back.’
‘All right, luv. There’s no hurry. I’ll see you later.’
Kitty left, and Aggie Donovan came sidling over and nodded at her retreating figure. ‘They got a letter this morning at number twenty. It came in a brown envelope.’
‘Did it now!’ said Nan, adding sarcastically, ‘What did it say?’
But the sarcasm was wasted on Aggie. ‘How should I know?’ she asked indignantly.
As she made her way towards the shops in Marsh Lane, Kitty thought about the letter that had arrived for her that morning. Apparently, the Ministry of Labour classified her as a single woman without dependants and demanded that she present herself at the local Labour Exchange next Monday morning at half past ten to register for war work.
There was nothing in the world Kitty wanted more
than
to get a job and do her bit towards the war effort. There were times when she felt as if the conflict was passing her by; that one morning she would wake up and it would all be over and Kitty Quigley wouldn’t have done a single thing to help her country win, not even in a voluntary capacity. In 1939, when it first started, Dad had nearly been in tears when she suggested she become an Air-Raid Warden or an Auxiliary Fire Fighter or join the Women’s Voluntary Service.
‘But what happens if those air raids they’re all talking about get going?’ he asked piteously. ‘Your poor ould dad’ll be left all on his own.’
‘You can always go to the shelter,’ Kitty said reasonably. ‘They’ve built one only just round the corner. One of the neighbours’ll come in and help you get there,’ she added quickly before he could raise that particular objection.
But Dad immediately thought of another. ‘Say if the worst happens and you’re killed! Who’ll look after me then? I’d have to go in a home.’ His eyes became moist. ‘I couldn’t stand that, Kitty, luv. I’d sooner be dead meself than go in a home. No, I think we should stick together. That’s what families are supposed to do during wartime, stick together if they can.’
Kitty loved her dad dearly. She couldn’t stand it when he cried. She knew he missed his mates and the camaraderie of the docks. He hated being an invalid and dependent on his daughter for virtually every little thing. For his sake, she immediately gave up all thought of joining a voluntary organisation and later on, during the raids, she and Dad sat under the stairs when the bombs fell on Bootle. Sometimes, during a lull, she could hear singing coming from the shelter around the corner, where everyone seemed to be having a dead good time despite the horrendous things happening outside.
There was a queue outside Costigans when Kitty
arrived
. There was always a queue outside any sort of shop that sold food – some women came well before they were due to open in order to be first – but this queue seemed unusually long, which meant there must be something special on sale.
‘What have they got?’ Kitty asked the woman at the back.
‘I dunno, luv. Look, keep me place a mo, and I’ll pop up to the front and see.’
Kitty willingly agreed. ‘Okay.’
‘I hope it’s biscuits,’ another woman said. ‘I haven’t had a biscuit in ages.’
‘I wouldn’t mind biscuits either, custard creams.’ Kitty’s mouth watered at the idea of dipping a custard cream in a cup of tea. It hadn’t exactly seemed a delicacy before the war, but now … ‘On the other hand, me dad was only saying the other night he really fancied sardines on toast.’
‘Aye, sardines’d be a nice treat.’
The first woman returned to reclaim her place. ‘It’s baked beans,’ she announced excitedly. ‘One for each ration book.’
Two more women had come up behind Kitty. ‘What’s the queue for, luv?’ one asked.
‘Baked beans.’
Kitty waited for nearly an hour, praying all the time the beans wouldn’t be sold out before her turn came. She emerged, triumphant, with three tins, one for Nan Wright, together with some other rations; tea, sugar and half a pound of nice lean bacon. They could have bacon and beans for dinner today.
She then queued for bread, queued for potatoes, and decided not to bother with the butcher’s when she discovered there was only the hated whalemeat on offer. Perhaps Nan would like a few slices of the bacon? Several women were waiting outside the shop as there was a rumour sausages might be available soon. The
butcher
didn’t dare announce the sausages were definite, else word would flash round like wildfire, and he’d end up with a queue a mile long and a possible riot on his hands if there wasn’t enough to go round.
On the way home, Kitty called in the newsagent’s shop to collect the
Daily Herald
. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ciggies?’ she asked hopefully.
Ernie Johnson, a middle-aged man with a severe squint, gave her a suggestive wink from behind the counter with his best eye. ‘Give us a kiss, and I’ll let you have ten Woodbines.’
‘I’ll do no such thing,’ said Kitty indignantly. ‘Have you really got Woodbines, Ernie? Me dad hasn’t had a smoke in weeks.’
‘Can I pinch your bum, then?’
‘No you can’t!’
‘In that case, what’ll you give me for ten Woodbines?’
‘The money!’
Ernie sighed as he produced the ciggies from underneath the counter. ‘There’s some women’d dance round me shop stark naked for them.’
‘I’m not sure if I’ll come in here again once the war’s over,’ Kitty said threateningly.
‘Can you imagine it being over, Kitty?’ Ernie’s face grew serious.
Kitty thought, then shook her head. ‘No. It’s funny, but it feels as if we’ve always been at war and it’ll never stop. I’ve even got used to the bomb sites. I can hardly remember Marsh Lane all built up like it used to be.’
‘I feel the same.’ Ernie seemed to be looking at Kitty with one eye and the door with the other. She remembered he had two sons, both in the army, though he was always good-humoured in a crude sort of way. ‘I wonder if things’ll ever be normal again?’
The door opened and a man poked his head in. ‘Any ciggies?’
‘No, mate,’ Ernie shook his head.
‘Ernie!’ Kitty said reproachfully when the door had closed.
‘Well, I’ve never seen him before. I keep the ciggies for me favourite customers – and there’s none more favourite than you, Kitty.’
He smacked his lips and made to come round the counter, and Kitty quickly escaped. She was never quite sure if Ernie was joking or not.
‘Kitty!’
A pretty, harassed-looking woman pushing a black pram containing two rather large children came panting up when Kitty emerged from the newsagent’s. ‘They’ve got baked beans in Costigans.’
Sheila Reilly had been in the same class as Kitty at school. She’d been Sheila Doyle from Garnet Street in those days, but had moved to Pearl Street when she married Calum Reilly, a merchant seaman who was away most of the time.
‘I know, I got some. I got one for Nan Wright, too. Did you know Ernie Johnson’s got ciggies?’
‘I’ve already bought a packet for me dad. He’s a dirty bugger, that Ernie. The things he asked me to do!’ She stopped the pram and fanned her face with her hand. ‘Phew! I’m sweating like a cob. Here, put your bags in the pram, Kit. That’s why I bring it. Our Mary’s two and Ryan’s three and they’re far too big to be pushed round, but it saves having to carry all me shopping. There’s no way I could cart home seven tins of beans, along with everything else.’
‘Mam!’ the children complained in unison as Kitty gratefully planted her two bags on their feet.
‘Shurrup, youse two, else I’ll make you walk,’ Sheila told them severely. She smiled at Kitty. ‘Kids!’
Sheila had six children; the older four were at school. The two women had been good friends once, though nowadays Kitty avoided her whenever she could as long as it didn’t involve being rude. Sheila Reilly with her
vast
family made her feel uncomfortable, like a dried-up old maid. Sometimes, Kitty felt it wasn’t just the war which was passing her by, but life itself.
‘How are you doing?’ Sheila asked as they walked back home. ‘I haven’t seen you for a natter in ages. Why don’t you pop in for a cup of tea now’n again? We could talk about old times.’
Because they’re the last thing I want to talk about, thought Kitty. It would only remind her of the hopes and dreams she’d once had, that the three of them had had; Brenda Mahon, Sheila and Kitty. They’d stayed friends after they left school at thirteen and went out to work. They’d done the First Fridays together, made the Stations of the Cross each Easter, gone to the pictures, giggled breathlessly over boys. She muttered something about how she’d love to pop in for a cup of tea, but her father always kept her busy.