‘In that case, I’ll come out and kick a ball round with
you
. The other lads’ll soon join in when they see me.’ He thought they’d be delighted, but both boys merely shrugged, and Billy said listlessly, ‘If you like.’
Their big white faces were still frightened whilst they silently munched their bread and jam. Jimmy sat in his chair and watched them. Obviously, they were scared their mam would come in.
‘Did your dad used to play with you?’ Apart from the day they’d met, Theresa had never once mentioned her first husband.
To Jimmy’s amazement, Georgie’s face lit up. ‘Yeah, well, not play exactly. We used to go fishing every time he was home.’
‘Fishing!’ exclaimed Jimmy. ‘Did you now! Whereabouts?’
‘In some river, I don’t know where it was. We used to get the bus.’
‘T’weren’t a river,’ argued Billy. ‘Our dad said it was just a stream.’
‘Did you catch much?’ asked Jimmy, interested.
‘Nah, just tiddlers. We’d bring them back in a jam jar.’
‘Would you like me to take you fishing next Saturday after I finish work?’
Billy burst out crying, much to Jimmy’s horror. ‘What’s the matter, lad?’ he asked, alarmed.
‘I don’t half miss me dad,’ sobbed Billy.
Georgie was doing his best to blink back his own tears. ‘So do I,’ he said, his bottom lip trembling. ‘Our dad was the gear.’
Poor little sods! It had never crossed Jimmy’s mind the lads were mourning their lost father. Bloody Theresa! He cursed the woman for her lack of sensitivity. At the same time, he cursed himself for thinking the lads were merely being churlish, when in fact they were dead miserable. Whilst they had been talking, they’d edged closer and by now both were leaning against Jimmy’s knees. They were an ugly pair, but perhaps not quite as
ugly
as he’d first thought. He had a feeling he could grow fond of them in time, and if the feeling was reciprocated, they could end up a proper family, excluding Theresa, of course. Or including her, if she ever turned out to be a human being.
He slapped them both on the shoulder. ‘Well, lads, things are going to change round here. As from today, I’m in charge. You’ll not be spending any more time in your room, you’re to play in the street like the other kids. As for your mam, if she attempts to put her foot down, I’ll …’ Jimmy paused, unsure what he’d do.
‘You’ll bloody clock her,’ suggested Georgie. ‘Me dad always said he’d like to clock her, but he never did.’
By the end of the week, Kitty had managed to adopt an air of false brightness. She smiled a lot, though the smile never reached her eyes, and spoke very fast in a rather high-pitched voice. She didn’t manage to fool her close acquaintances but, as she said to Lucy, ‘I can’t stand the thought of people feeling sorry for me. I can’t go round with a long face for the rest of me life.’ She giggled a touch hysterically. ‘The patients’ll never get better with a nurse who looks like the Angel of Death!’
Only in the solitude of her bedroom did she let herself go. Even then, she drew the eiderdown over her head so Jessica couldn’t hear the sobs that racked her body night after night. It didn’t help when she received a letter from Dale: he loved her, he missed her. Please could they meet again?
It took almost superhuman willpower for Kitty to throw the letter on the fire after she’d read it once. There was nothing she wanted more than to mend her broken heart by sinking into Dale’s arms in their hotel room with the black wallpaper. But their romance was doomed. He himself had used the word: doomed. If she
weakened
and allowed herself to see him again, she’d have to go through all this again when the war was over and he returned to his wife and family.
A week later, another letter came with an Ipswich postmark. It was waiting on the sideboard when Kitty arrived home from work. The envelope felt thick, as if there was more than just a letter inside, and Kitty guessed what it contained. She flung it on the fire, unopened.
Jessica gasped, and the two women stood watching as flickering blue flames quickly seized the paper and it began to burn. The envelope went first, exposing the contents, the photographs which had been taken on the ferry to New Brighton. The one of Dale kissing her was on top – perhaps he’d put it there deliberately. Gradually, the flames took hold, the photos began to curl and burn, the two figures on the boat turned brown, then black, then completely disappeared. Soon, all that was left was a little square of grey ash. Jessica, noting the way Kitty was staring intently at the fire, seized the poker and dispersed the ash, so there was nothing left to remind her of the final day out in New Brighton with Dale Tooley.
Kitty had her curly brown hair cut very short. She’d lost her appetite and was losing weight and the short hair made her face look even thinner. Perversely, where once she’d been healthily pretty, the haunted expression in her large hazel eyes and the delicate contours of her suddenly hollow cheeks gave her an air of almost fragile beauty.
In the middle of July she turned twenty-eight, though pleaded with Jessica not to do anything special for tea. ‘I’d sooner ignore it. I feel more like sixty than twenty-eight.’
‘Whatever you say, love, though you’re a bit young to forget about your birthdays.’ Even so, Jessica gave Kitty
a
pretty cream georgette scarf and her dad bought her a tiny locket on a chain.
‘It’s real silver, kiddo. I got it from that pawnshop in Marsh Lane. The feller there said it’s antique, whatever that means.’
Soon after her birthday, Kitty was on her way down to the office with papers for a patient who was about to be discharged, when a startled voice said, ‘Kitty! I hardly recognised you with your hair like that.’
‘Hello, Stan,’ she said calmly. ‘I didn’t know you were back.’
Stan Taylor laughed. ‘I’ve never been away. I was made permanent months ago.’
‘I didn’t realise. I’ve been rather taken up with other things lately.’
‘So I’ve noticed. Whenever I’ve said hello, you looked as if you were a hundred miles away.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Seeing as you’ve recognised my existence,’ he said eagerly, ‘how about a trip to the pictures one night soon? It’s ages since we had a chat.’
Kitty paused before replying. She had no wish to go out with another man again, but it would make a change to talk to someone who didn’t know about the break-up with Dale. Jessica, Sheila, her dad, the other nurses – everyone talked to her in an artificial way, as if she were a child and they were terrified of saying something wrong. She knew they were being sympathetic, but it only seemed to emphasise how deeply she’d been hurt.
‘As long as the picture’s a musical or a comedy,’ she said to Stan. ‘I’m not in the mood for a romance.’
They went to a cinema in Waterloo to see Betty Grable in
Down Argentina Way
. Kitty supposed that normally she might have found it enjoyable, but she felt too numb to laugh and allow herself be carried away by the cheerful music.
When they came out of the cinema, Stan suggested they went for a drink in the public house across the road. ‘The usual?’ he enquired when they were inside.
‘No, I’ll have something stronger,’ said Kitty. Her usual drink was half a pint of shandy. She remembered he normally drank rum. ‘A rum and orange, please.’
‘It’s not like you to drink spirits,’ Stan said when he returned with the drinks.
‘I’ve changed since we last went out.’
‘In what way?’
‘I drink rum now, instead of shandy!’ She began to sip the drink slowly and by the time she’d finished, she felt a little dizzy and the edges of her hurt became slightly blunted. She felt less sad.
‘Would you like another?’ asked Stan.
‘I wouldn’t mind.’ Perhaps another drink would make her happy. ‘Did you ever hear from Daphne?’ she asked when Stan came back.
He made a face. ‘Only that she got married.’
‘What happened to the other girl, the one you fell in love with?’
‘Nothing came of it.’
‘I’m sorry, Stan.’ She squeezed his arm. She’d always liked Stan, but now she felt almost affectionate. He’d also been let down by the person he loved, which meant they’d both been through the same tragic experience. It was a bit late in the day, but she wanted to convey the fact that she understood and sympathised.
‘Never mind, there’s still time. Another rum, Kitty?’
‘Wouldn’t say no,’ Kitty replied thickly.
The barman called time just as she finished her third rum and orange. Kitty’s legs felt unsteady when they left the pub and began to walk along Liverpool Road in the direction of Bootle. Stan put his arm around her waist to hold her steady.
‘Thanks, Stan,’ she hiccuped. ‘You’re the best friend in the world.’ She stopped and looked at him
with
moist eyes. ‘Am I your best friend in the world, Stan?’
‘I want to be more than your friend, Kitty.’ Stan’s voice was strange, all tight and strangled. ‘I’ve been in love with you for ages. You’re the “other girl” I mentioned. I love you, Kitty.’
‘Love!’ Kitty laughed bitterly. ‘There’s no such thing as love. Love’s just a joke. It doesn’t exist.’
‘But I love you,’ Stan insisted.
‘I don’t love you,’ cried Kitty. ‘I’ll never love anyone again as long as I live. Love turns to ashes on the fire.’
‘Let’s get you back to my place,’ Stan muttered. ‘You can’t go home like this.’
‘Jessica won’t mind.’
‘Who’s Jessica?’ Stan began to hurry her along.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Kitty seriously. ‘But, whoever she is, she won’t mind. Anyroad, what’s wrong with me?’
‘You’re in urgent need of a cup of strong black coffee.’
‘Haven’t you got a landlady?’ Kitty giggled. ‘She might mind more than Jessica.’
‘My landlady’s on holiday.’
Kitty wasn’t sure why it was necessary for Stan to take her upstairs when they reached his lodgings. ‘Funny place for a back kitchen!’ she remarked as he led her into an untidy bedroom with too much furniture.
‘Lie down, Kitty. You’ll feel better once you’re lying down.’
She sank back onto the bed and the room swam around her. ‘I don’t like your wallpaper. I like black wallpaper with roses best.’
‘Damn the wallpaper.’ He bent over and pressed his lips against hers. ‘I adore you, Kitty,’ he said passionately, after a while. ‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve dreamed of doing this.’ He was fumbling with the buttons down the front of her frock.
Kitty just lay there and let him. She was still drunk, but the walk had sobered her up enough to realise what was happening. Stan, like all men, was merely taking advantage of an unexpected opportunity – Dale had done the same, except with him it had been a more long-term attempt to get her into bed. She knew Stan could be stopped. He wasn’t a brute. All she had to do was fight or scream and he’d soon back away, but perhaps this was a way of escaping from the all-consuming misery she’d felt over the last few weeks. She reached up and put her arms around his neck, drew his face down to her breasts and let him kiss them.
‘Kitty, Kitty,’ he groaned.
She shoved her clothes down and he ran his hands up and down her body. He touched the places only one other man had touched before. There was a pause whilst he removed his clothes, staring at her naked body greedily the whole time.
They made love, but it was nothing like it had been with that other man. He didn’t look like Dale or sound like Dale. He didn’t feel like Dale. He was a stranger, a rather worthless stranger, but perhaps not so worthless as herself.
When they’d finished, Kitty felt dirty. She felt like a prostitute who’d sold herself, not for money, but for a few minutes of forgetfulness. Not only that, the transaction had been a waste of time. She’d forgotten nothing. Indeed, it only brought home to her how perfect her relationship had been with the man who had so cruelly betrayed her.
‘That was wonderful, Kitty,’ Stan said in a small voice. ‘I’ll make you that coffee now.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Kitty. ‘I’d sooner go home.’ She began to put her clothes back on.
‘In that case, I’ll take you.’ He jumped eagerly off the bed.
‘I’d rather go by meself, if you don’t mind.’
‘When will I see you again?’
‘We’ll probably see each other round the hospital,’ Kitty said airily. She glanced at his crestfallen face. ‘Tara, Stan.’
Convoy PQ-17, on its way to the Russian port of Murmansk with a cargo of tanks, aircraft and military vehicles, was being subjected to a vicious onslaught from German U-boats and planes. Day after day, Sheila Reilly listened to the wireless and heard a cultured voice announce that once again, ‘Enemy planes have attacked British merchant shipping in the Barents Sea. Several British and Allied vessels were sunk.’
‘There’ll be none left to sink soon,’ thought Sheila. She was in the yard sorting out the family leavings in various receptacles: bacon rind in a jar for Eileen’s hens, potato peelings to make compost for her garden, bones for Rover, and silver milk-bottle tops which Aggie Donovan would collect, along with the waste paper and cardboard. There was scarcely any rubbish for the bin men nowadays.
‘It’s not knowing whether Cal’s alive or dead that’s the worst.’ On the other hand, not knowing meant there was still hope. She hadn’t yet had a chance to tell him about the baby.
It was going to be a boy. Brenda had suspended a needle and thread over Sheila’s belly and the needle had swung clockwise, which meant a boy.
‘I thought clockwise meant a girl?’ said Brenda.
‘Now you’ve got me all confused and I can’t remember meself. I’m sure it’s a boy.’
Sheila had begun to think up names. It had to be something Irish: Declan, Kevin – Patrick was a nice name and currently her favourite. But what if it was a girl? She’d always fancied Mavoureen, but Cal didn’t like it, he thought it soppy. They’d argued over Mary when their youngest was born. Cal preferred Aileen,
but
Sheila protested. ‘I’ve been calling her Mary for months. I’ve always had a feeling I was carrying a girl.’
She pictured her babies inside her womb the minute she knew she was expecting. They weren’t seeds or foetuses or whatever the doctors called them, but tiny, perfect human beings just an inch or so long. She could picture the new baby: it was about as big as her hand now and looked exactly like Calum. ‘That’s what I’ll call him, Calum!’