A Cuppa Tea and an Aspirin (34 page)

He decided on Auntie Ellen. He could at least dump his kitbag with her. It was possible, too, that she might have been in touch with other aunts or relations and have some news of the girls for him.

Perhaps it would be best to be armed with any further information she had before seeing the police: he had all the reluctance of an inhabitant of the courts to being interviewed, face to face, by a constable. Yet he loved his funny little sisters and he was determined to trace them.

Grim-faced for so young a lad with leave to look forward to, he took the overhead railway to the Pier Head and, as the train rattled along, he noted the crowded shipping in the docks and river – nice targets for the Jerries, he thought glumly. Then, to take him close to the court, he caught a tram.

As, with warning clangs of the driver's bell, the tram nosed its way on the short trip through the city, the gaping ruins left by the bombing were swiftly revealed to him. He decided that, wherever
his sisters were, they were probably safer than if they were in Liverpool.

Court No. 5 was extraordinarily quiet. The air-raid shelter directly outside the entrance cut off much of the noise of the main street. Within the court itself, no children played on the filthy, litter-strewn cobbles. A thin tabby cat sat on a doorstep leading to a closed door. At his entrance, a seagull took flight from the roof. No washing flapped on the clothes lines stretched across the court. Without the noisy activity of its usual inhabitants, the confined space felt eerie. The smell had not changed much; weeks at sea made him notice the contrast.

Kitbag on shoulder, he stood for a moment before turning to Auntie Ellen's front door, which, like the ones opposite, was shut. He banged on it with his fist, but got no response.

He tried the handle. It was unlocked, so he swung the door open, plonked his kitbag on the step and called, ‘Auntie Ellen! Desi!'

No response. Shoving his kitbag further inwards, he stepped over the doorsill.

He had never before seen the O'Hara room undraped with washing. Lack of it, however, did not make it look any tidier. An encrusted saucepan stood on the hob of a cooking range filled only with
ashes. The bed was a muddled heap of bedding and men's clothing. A copy of the
Evening Express
lay scattered round a rocking chair – Desi's efforts at housekeeping, as he cared for frail Auntie Ellen, were not very good.

After staring doubtfully at the untidy mess, he decided, ‘They must still be here.'

Stepping carefully, to avoid tripping over a couple of boxes used as tables, he knocked at a door in the far wall. Behind it, he remembered, there should be another tenant in a windowless room. Since she had to walk through the O'Haras' room every time she went out, she would know all about their comings and goings.

There was no answer. He cautiously opened the door, but it was so dark that he could see little. It was, however, apparently unoccupied.

Leaving his kitbag where it was, he turned and walked out and across the court to Martha's house. Without much hope, he knocked on her door.

For a moment, he thought that he was again out of luck. But there came a sleepy ‘Coming' and the sound of shuffling feet. The door was opened a crack, and tousled Helen O'Brien, her black shawl clutched over a flannel nightgown, peeped out.

She looked at him blankly, and then her lined face split into a welcoming grin.

‘Danny!' she exclaimed. ‘You looking for Martha? Come in, love. Martha's at the market.'

She clasped him round the waist and eased him into Martha's unlocked room; the place was so cluttered with abandoned boxes, assorted rags and other junk that there was not much room to move.

Helen turned her head away from him, and shouted, ‘Annie, put your dressing gown on and come on in here. Danny Flanagan's come. And put the kettle on.'

‘Well, that's real nice,' came the reply, and a moment later, there was the sound of the primus stove being pumped up and then a cheerful roar as it caught.

Helen did not feel it was proper to ask such a nice lad into their room; though, had she met him in the street, she would have accosted him in her usual playful way, as a seaman in search of a woman.

She sat him down on a box, and seated herself on another one by the littered hearth of the range.

‘Well, now, did you go over to Ellen's house? 'Cos she's been took a little walk by Kitty Callaghan. I seen them go, and Desi's at work, I expect.'

Daniel swallowed, sensing more bad news.

‘Yes, I did. Where's she gone? Do you know?'

‘Nope. She'll be back soon, though; she's still quite weak.'

Daniel's blank incomprehension suddenly registered with Helen. ‘I forgot you been away so long,' she exclaimed. ‘Your auntie got hit in the back by a piece of shrapnel in February. Real hurt, she was. In hospital for three weeks.'

Before Danny could express his surprise and concern, she added, ‘I expect you know about her boy, Shaun, being in hospital in Halifax, Nova Scotia? His ship was sunk, and he's suffering from exposure: the water must be proper cold up there.'

‘Good Lord! I haven't heard nothing about neither of them. How's Auntie Ellen now?' He was shaken not only by the wounding, but also by the fact that his main source of help was out of action. ‘And poor old Shaun?'

‘Well, Ellen's not been able to really get her strength up again. She says Shaun is getting along, however, which is something.'

He nodded. War was not kind to seamen or their families.

Though he squatted on a box by Helen so politely, he wanted to explode with fear and with frustration.

A smiling Ann, who had taken the time, while the kettle boiled, to comb her hair into its usual
neat bun and to tie her dressing gown properly, emerged with a mug of weak tea in each hand. When she had fetched the sugar and another mug for herself, she joined them.

Danny now felt able to ask the question burning on his lips. ‘Do you know if anything's been heard of Dollie, Connie and Minnie? I'm really worried about them.'

Helen replied, ‘Well, no. There were a copper here a few months ago, end of March, I think. He was actually looking for a gang they believe is picking up kids off the street and selling them for you know what. And since he knows Desi, he remembered the girls and thought he'd just check that they'd either returned home or was safe in Shropshire where they was supposed to be billeted. The billeting people had assured the police that they could certainly find any child which had passed through their hands, and would let Desi know where they were. So the police passed the job to them – the police is up to their necks in work.

‘This Constable Phillips was real surprised that Desi and Ellen had had no word about them, and he promised to inquire again for him.'

‘God forbid they've been abducted!' exclaimed Daniel. His face blenched.

‘Don't take on so, love. Everything'll probably
turn out all right,' soothed Helen. She put out a hand to touch his arm. ‘Constable Phillips thinks it is more of a paper muck-up than anything, with your sisters.'

Daniel put his mug down on the floor. ‘In a minute or two, I'm going over to Dale Street. Will you tell Desi I'm home – I guess he won't mind if I stay with him. And tell Martha when you see her.'

Helen felt privately that Desi had been very careless in not following up the lack of news about the missing children. But she knew, from a few stray comments from Ellen, that he did not want the responsibility for them foisted on him. Then, with the air raids he had been worked to death, and, of course, he had had to cope with poor Ellen's wounding – and now, maybe, Shaun, if he did not recover enough to be shoved back into the Navy.

‘Do you have any news of your dad?' asked Ann, her nose in her mug.

‘Yes, in a way.' He hesitated and then decided that he might as well tell them – it would come out in the end. ‘He jumped ship at Sydney and vanished. I guess Australia is a big place.' He made a wry face.

There was a shocked silence, and then Helen said slowly, ‘Well, I'm glad Mary Margaret's not
here. She couldn't have borne it, poor dear. And your Grandma Theresa would have hit the roof!'

At this mention of his mother and grandmother, Daniel wanted to weep for them in his helpless frustration. And he wanted to kick his father. Thomas had, by his very serious action, left him the responsibility of looking after three helpless little sisters.

When I'm only earning peanuts, how can I keep them? It's not fair – and nobody knows where they are, he thought in a wild mix of despair and rage. He must, however, first find them.

He got up from his box, thanked the two women, and said he would be back later on in the evening.

At the police station, the elderly constable was kind; you never knew what the distraught person on the other side of the desk had been through, he always averred, and this lad looked real stricken. He actually had a vague memory of his frantic inquiries just before he sailed.

As a result of the information received from Constable Phillips, he told the boy, they had been in touch by telephone with the police in Shropshire. The police there had reported that the woman they spoke to would not admit that any child in their care could possibly be missing. She was, however, checking: sometimes kids got moved around from one billet to another, because of bad behaviour.

‘Give her a day or two more,' advised the constable. ‘Like most of us, they're badly short of staff.'

Sifting through the papers relating to the case, the constable inquired, ‘Have you heard from their father yet?'

Reluctantly, Daniel said that he had not.

‘Do you know where he is? Has he been informed about his children?'

‘He's in Australia, but I don't know where.' Daniel's voice was low and resentful.

‘Humph. I thought you told me he was a seaman. Was he put ashore – for sickness or something?'

They'll find out quick enough, if they want him, thought Daniel, and decided he had better be honest. ‘He's jumped ship in Australia,' he said. ‘Failed to report back after shore leave.'

The constable looked up. Poor kid. ‘And you're also a seaman.'

Daniel forgot his sisters for a moment. His face glowed with pride. ‘Apprentice,' he replied. ‘Paid off this afternoon. Another year, and I'll be an ordinary seaman.'

Under his white moustache, the constable smiled at the boy. He knocked the papers into a neat oblong. ‘Well, let us know immediately if their father turns up. Meanwhile, we'll hope to have
your sisters' address before you sail again. Then we can consult a welfare officer about someone to keep an eye on them, and get you some help if it's needed. Bear in mind that the children are probably comfortably billeted.'

He smiled again at Daniel. ‘Before you sail, let us know your ship, and the welfare officer will keep in touch.' Better not to tell him that he was too young to be the children's guardian. Let a social worker tell him that.

He stifled a yawn; he had been on duty for twelve hours.

1965

Since Angie had skipped work for a day to go for an interview, Sheila sent a polite verbal request to the Matron, via Dorothy, saying that she would like to see her when she had time.

It was delivered to Matron as, ‘That woman on the first floor with no legs wants to talk to you.'

Matron did not look up from her desk. She was filling in a report ordered by the City's Health Department, and did not welcome interruption: she did not want any civil servants snooping round her nursing home because she had not filled in a form correctly.

‘She'll have to wait,' she snapped at Dorothy.

Dorothy made a face behind her back. She did not bother to go upstairs to give Matron's reply to Sheila.

Matron came up the next morning, and asked what the trouble was.

‘No trouble,' replied Sheila, determined to be pleasant. ‘I'd like to have me pocket money, out of me OAP. I don't know why I didn't get it come Friday.'

‘A small sum is kept in trust for you. It is not handed to you, in case it is stolen: it is similar to the care taken of your possessions during a stay in hospital.'

Sheila swallowed. ‘I want to buy some stationery and some stamps. So may I have last week's, please?'

Martha stared resentfully at the Matron, and wondered what the reply would be.

It came in the form of a question.

‘Do you have a relation who will shop for you? You have not had any visitors, so far.'

‘No. I thought I might ask Angie.'

Matron's lips compressed. Her chin lifted slightly. She said, ‘The staff has its work to do. It can't run messages for every patient.'

Sheila's face flushed. She said, ‘Well, not every patient is like Martha and me. Those women opposite don't even know they're here.' She gestured towards the two dementia sufferers, firmly tucked up in bed that morning. ‘Nor that poor soul
there.' She pointed to the stroke victim, equally neatly imprisoned in bedclothes.

‘Well?'

‘Martha and me, we're in our right minds. But we don't have no visitors to help us.' She looked imploringly at the woman in front of her. ‘Surely one of the staff can do something to help us.'

‘You are, according to my records, both Roman Catholics. Arrangements are being made for a priest to come to administer Holy Communion. Ask him to find help for you.'

She turned to leave the room.

‘I forgot. I want me radio back,' Sheila added.

Matron put her hand on the doorknob and turned.

She said loftily, ‘It is, also, being kept safely for you. It cannot be used in the ward, without earphones, because it will disturb other patients.'

She had reached the hallway when Sheila exploded.