Through the Storm (34 page)

‘You’re going?’ Jessica felt alarmed. He was the only one who’d spoken so far. The others, looking extremely wan and miserable, were sitting dejectedly in the living room and hadn’t said a word.

‘I’d like to stay, ma’am, but I’ve things to do. I’ll be back around seven thirty.’ With a cheery wave, he was gone.

‘Well,’ said Jessica, rubbing her hands together with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel, ‘let’s get that table ready, shall we?’

The boys mutely did as they were told and began to carry food into the parlour where the table had been opened to its fullest extent and was already set with cutlery. Jessica put Penny in her high chair so she’d be out of the way. She sat sucking her thumb and watching the proceedings with wide-eyed curiosity.

Kitty Quigley arrived, accompanied by a young peroxided blonde with her arm in a sling. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but I was waiting for Lucy,’ Kitty said when Jessica thankfully opened the door.

‘Me dad refused to let me out,’ Lucy explained. ‘I got me hair dyed yesterday, and you’d think I’d announced I was about to go on the game. Look what he did!’ She held out her arm. ‘It’s me wrist, but it’s only sprained, not broken. He locked me in the bedroom this morning and I ended up climbing out the window, which is not easy, I can tell you, with only one arm.’

‘I see,’ said Jessica faintly. ‘They’re in the parlour, and
I
think they might all be dumb, because no-one’s spoken so far.’

The boys perked up a bit at the sight of two young women, but only slightly.

‘Christ Almighty, get a load of this grub!’ Lucy set to with relish, but the three young boys picked at their food throughout the meal and the conversation was forced, despite Jessica’s strained attempts to enquire about their families, their hobbies, their favourite sport.

‘The USA,’ Gary replied when she asked where he came from. He was a slight, white-faced boy with babyish fair hair.

‘I know that,’ Jessica said patiently, affecting not to hear Lucy’s stifled giggle. ‘I meant what town?’

‘Houston.’

‘Is it nice there?’

‘Gee, I suppose it’s okay.’

‘And what about you, Frank?’

Frank had lovely soft skin and a slightly Latin look. ‘Paris, Texas,’ he replied.

‘I didn’t know there was a Paris in America,’ Jessica remarked in surprise. ‘I went to Paris, France, on my honeymoon.’

She rather hoped one of them would ask what Paris was like and the conversation would start rolling, but after a long pause, Kitty said politely, ‘Did you, Jess?’

Jessica began to wonder, seeing as it was Mothers’ Day, if she should have made herself look more motherly; put her hair in a bun, gone without make-up and worn her dowdiest frock, which might have made the boys feel more at home. Instead, in an effort to look glamorous for her youthful guests, she was dressed up to the nines in a purple two-piece, her highest heels, the treasured nylons and possibly two much jewellery and make-up. She racked her brains for something else to say. Even Penny was unusually silent and Kitty was staring shyly at her plate, as if as stuck for words as Jessica.
Lucy
, for the moment at least, had abandoned her sling and was too busy attacking the food to be of much use.

‘This isn’t half the gear,’ was the most Lucy had uttered on several occasions as she cut another slice of ham or pork and helped herself to more salad. Wayne, who had a faint hint of a moustache and seemed the most mature of the three, regarded her from time to time with surreptitious interest.

The main meal finished, Jessica opened the tin of strawberries which she served with lashings of cream. What on earth were they to do when they’d finished eating? She glanced at the clock. Only half four, which meant it would be another three hours before Sergeant Tooley returned. She imagined the three boys reporting back to Major Henningsen that they’d had a lousy time and come away feeling even more miserable than when they’d arrived.

Unknown to Jessica, in the street outside a crowd had gathered and unrest was stirring. ‘She can’t expect to keep them to herself the whole time,’ complained Aggie Donovan. ‘I mean, we’re entitled to meet the Americans every bit as much as she is.’

‘They probably haven’t finished their tea yet,’ said Sheila, though like Aggie, she was dying to meet the foreign guests. ‘Maybe she’ll invite us in later.’ Little did she know, but this was the furthest thought from Jessica’s mind.

‘I’ve got a brother in America,’ claimed Paddy O’Hara. ‘You never know, one of ’em might have met him. He’s quite well known in Boston,’ he told the crowd.

‘That’s more than likely,’ someone agreed.

‘I’m going in,’ Aggie said determinedly, and made for the entry which ran behind the houses. Jessie Fleming seemed to forget she was only a rag-and-boneman’s daughter and didn’t deign to hang her key inside the letterbox like other people, which meant Aggie would
have
to go in the back way. If she knocked on the front door, she ran the risk of being turned away.

‘Oh, God!’ Jessica groaned when she heard the back kitchen door open. If the neighbours arrived on the scene, the occasion would turn out to be a worse disaster than it already was.

‘Hallo, lads.’ Aggie Donovan appeared in the parlour doorway in the brown wool frock with the beads on the bodice which had been her best for over a quarter of a century. By now, half the beads were missing and the frock hung lankly on her skinny frame, which seemed to get skinnier by the year. ‘Welcome to Bootle. How are you settling in, like? Poor little lambs, stuck in a strange foreign country at your age. I bet you don’t half miss your mams and dads.’

To Jessica’s astonishment, Gary burst into tears. ‘Gran!’ he bawled. He stumbled out of the chair into Aggie’s arms.

‘There, lad! Have a good cry on your ould gran’s shoulder.’ Aggie patted his back energetically and grinned triumphantly at Jessica.

At first, Jessica thought it was a reunion between two long lost relatives, but apparently Aggie was merely a substitute. ‘I really miss my gran,’ Gary sobbed.

‘Never mind, lad, you’ve got a replacement for the duration. You can come and see me any time,’ Aggie assured him.

‘Can I hold Penny, Mrs Fleming?’ Frank enquired tearfully. ‘I’ve a kid sister at home who’s not much older than she is.’

‘Of course.’ Jessica picked Penny out of the high chair and dumped her on Frank’s knee. ‘And please call me Jess, not Mrs Fleming.’

‘Can Wayne plug his … what did you call it?’ Lucy turned to Wayne, who had magically transported himself into the chair beside her the very second it was vacated.

‘Phonograph.’

‘Can Wayne plug his phonograph in? I think he means a gramophone,’ she added in an aside.

‘I’ve brought some records with me,’ said Wayne.

‘I’m afraid there’s no electricity in the house,’ gulped Jessica. Everything was getting beyond her. The tea party was totally ruined.

‘Sheila Reilly’s got electricity,’ said Kitty. ‘We’ll take it there.’

Outside, the crowd were waiting for Aggie to establish diplomatic relations. If she didn’t emerge soon, they’d all go in themselves. One or two had already moved in the direction of the entry, when the front door of number 10 opened and the three young soldiers came out. They almost disappeared beneath a deluge of delighted people anxious to make the lads welcome in their country.

Kitty and Lucy carried the gramophone into the Reillys’, but the plug wouldn’t fit the socket in the parlour. A distress alert was sounded for an adaptor.

‘Go round to your grandad’s,’ Sheila instructed Dominic urgently, ‘and tell him to fetch the box of plugs and things he keeps in the washhouse. He’s a terrible magpie, me dad,’ she explained to Jessica when Dominic scooted off. ‘He collects all sorts of funny odds and ends.’

Jack Doyle came hurrying around the corner minutes later clutching a cardboard box. He found a suitable adaptor, Sheila opened the parlour window, and soon the sound of the Andrews Sisters’ ‘Boogie-woogie Bugle Boy of Company B’ came blaring out.

Wayne began to dance with Lucy, a most peculiar dance, in which Wayne remained half crouched, kicking his legs in rhythm to the music and twirling his partner around like a top. Lucy quickly got the hang of it. Her sprained wrist forgotten, she twisted and turned and flailed her arms like a crazy windmill.

‘That’s a funny dance, lad,’ Aggie remarked to Gary.

‘It’s called the jitterbug, Gran. Do you want to try it?’

‘I’ll have a go at anything. Come on.’

More people joined in the dancing, and suddenly a party was in progress. It was months since the street had had a party. At the sound of the noise, doors were flung open and those who’d been quietly reading the Sunday paper or preparing the tea, came out, took one look, and promptly joined in the festivities.

Jessica told Sheila on the quiet that there was plenty left to eat if she was hungry.

‘I’m bloody starving,’ said Sheila. Calum never seemed to be home when the street had a party and on these occasions she missed him more than ever. She turned to Paddy O’Hara who was blissfully tapping his stick on the pavement. ‘Are you peckish, luv?’

‘I’m always peckish, Sheila.’

Afterwards, Jessica was never quite sure how it happened, but her house was suddenly full of people after food.

‘Pork!’

‘Ham!’

‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, is that peaches?’

‘Help yourself,’ Jessica called gaily. All of a sudden she didn’t care. The meat wouldn’t keep and it wasn’t fair that she should be left with loads of cake and biscuits all to herself. If it hadn’t been for the neighbours the tea party would have turned out to be a wash-out. As it was, Gary, Frank and Wayne appeared to be having a whale of a time.

Jimmy Quigley stood at the parlour window, watching. ‘I think I might pop outside for a few minutes,’ he called to his new wife.

‘I’d sooner you didn’t,’ Theresa said primly from the other room where she was ironing. ‘It sounds dead rowdy out there.’

‘They’re playing an Al Jolson record.’ Jimmy sang
underneath
his breath. ‘Mammy, Mammy, the sun shines east …’ He loved Al Jolson. ‘We could dance together,’ he called wistfully. ‘I haven’t danced in years.’

‘In the street! Not likely.’

‘Y’know, it wouldn’t hurt to let Georgie and Billy out for a while. There seems to be plenty of food.’ Georgie and Billy had, like himself, been stuck at the window watching the goings-on with longing. Theresa had sent them to bed, fed up with them nagging to be allowed to join in the party like the other kids. Jimmy didn’t like to say anything, but he was beginning to feel concerned that the lads spent far too much time shut in their room.

Theresa didn’t answer. Jimmy remained, as his daughter had so often done in the past, feeling slightly cut off from a world where everybody else seemed to be enjoying themselves. He sighed and returned to the living room where he picked up the paper and began to read. ‘Never mind,’ he muttered, half to himself, ‘the King’s Arms’ll be open soon.’

‘Me dad never drank on Sundays, nor me first husband.’ Theresa ironed a cuff with careful precision. ‘And I’ve been meaning to say this before, Jimmy, but I’m only home one night a week, and I’d’ve thought you’d prefer to stay in with me.’

‘If that’s what you’d like, luv.’

Theresa glanced at him with her wet grey eyes. ‘It seems proper.’

Jimmy reached out and stroked her bottom. Her square face didn’t change, but she must have liked it or she would have stopped him. He didn’t want to stay in, but knew if he put his foot down and ignored her, she would deny him the privilege of her body that night, and possibly the next night if she thought the offence warranted sterner punishment. She enjoyed making love, but seemed to be able to turn herself on and off like a tap, lying with her back to him and positively refusing all his coaxings.

‘How about … y’know?’ He cocked his head upstairs. The lads knew what was good for them, so there was no chance of them emerging from their room without permission.

‘Your Kitty might come in.’

‘What would that matter? She won’t come in the bedroom.’

‘In a minute, as soon as I’ve finished the ironing.’

Jimmy pretended to read the paper, his body trembling with anticipation. Half an hour in bed with Theresa was better than a street party or a pint of ale any day.

It was still daylight when Sergeant Dale Tooley drove his jeep around the corner into Pearl Street. The peculiar habit the Brits had of fiddling around with their clocks had occurred a few weeks ago, which meant that darkness fell two hours later than it had done the day before.

He grinned with satisfaction. ‘Gee, the boys sure seem to be having a great time.’

To the strains of a harmonica and a great deal of whooping and shouting, the entire street seemed to be involved in an exuberant Irish jig. His three young charges could be seen, jackets and caps removed, at the very centre of the riotous dance. To the sergeant’s surprise, he felt homesick himself for the first time since he’d come to England several weeks ago. His folks were first-generation Irish immigrants, and he’d witnessed the same mad scene at Boston ceilidhs numerous times during his twenty-eight years.

He was rather pleased when he noticed the bar across the road open its doors for business. He climbed out of the jeep, went inside and ordered a pint of bitter ale. It was a strange old place, with sawdust on the floor and wooden benches and tables that looked a hundred years old.

‘How much is that, pal?’

The landlord laid his hands flat down on the counter and beamed, ‘It’s on the house, mate.’

‘Gee, thanks a million.’

Suddenly, as if would-be customers had been hiding close by down alleys and around corners, the bar was full. Dale Tooley found himself plied with pints of ale and double whiskies. The Brits certainly were a friendly lot.

‘What did you do back in America?’

‘I was a construction worker, like my pa before me.’

They asked where he came from and when he said, ‘Boston, Massachusetts’, someone shouted, ‘Fetch Paddy O’Hara. He’s got a brother in Boston, you might know him.’

‘It’s a big place,’ said Dale Tooley.