Through the Storm (13 page)

Jessica Fleming stood mesmerised in the middle of the bedroom, Penny clutched to her breast, unsure what to do or where to go. The ground shook as one explosion was followed by another. Planes growled overhead, there was the sound of ack-ack fire from the guns on the ground, and missiles hurtled towards the earth with a hideous cruel whine. There would be a pause, then the ground would shake again.

She crept under the stairs and sat on the floor surrounded by the feather duster and the broom and boxes of Miss Brazier’s old dishes. It hadn’t crossed her mind to prepare the cupboard as a shelter.

‘And to think I regretted missing all this!’ she whispered. ‘Penny, love, your mother must be mad!’

There were more victims of German bombs that night than on any other, even in the very worst of the Blitz, 109 casualties altogether.

Pearl Street remained untouched. The worst damage was concentrated on Surrey Street, where two bombs fell close together.

For days, weeks afterwards, everyone was petrified the whole terrible business was about to start again.

But that October night was the last time the German Luftwaffe were to target their bombs on the small town of Bootle.

Dominic Reilly swung his gas mask around in a wide circle above his head. At the same time, he began to run, hollering a war chant like the Red Indians he saw at the pictures on Saturday afternoons.

‘Mind where you’re going, lad,’ an old man muttered as he dodged out of the way of the lethal weapon. ‘You could knock somebody’s block off with that.’

Dominic put the gas mask over his shoulder and galloped instead, slapping his hip to urge himself onwards. He stopped hollering and made a clip-clop noise with his tongue. He was Wild Bill Hickok chasing after the baddies.

His brother Niall caught up with him, panting breathlessly. ‘You’re daft you are, you nearly killed that ould man.’

‘He was a baddy.’

‘No he wasn’t, he was an ould man.’

Niall, a year younger than Dominic, wasn’t sure whether to be proud or jealous of his brother that day. St Joan of Arc’s football team had just won their second-round game and Dominic, the captain, had scored the only two goals. Although Niall enjoyed basking in a
certain
amount of reflected glory, he would have liked to have been in the team himself and subject to the wild adulation of his team mates for having been responsible for his side’s win. This was merely wishful thinking. Niall was built more like his mam than his dad, with pale, soft skin and narrow shoulders. He had no aptitude for games of any sort, yet he was brighter than his brother, a fact no-one had remarked on as yet, he thought resentfully.

‘Me mam’ll have a fit when she sees your jacket,’ he said, to try and bring his brother down a peg or two.

‘What’s wrong with me jacket?’

‘The pocket’s nearly off, that’s what. You must have done it when you got in that fight outside the gates.’

Dominic glanced down at the pocket of his tweed jacket which was hanging on by a few threads. He wasn’t in the mood to be brought down the merest fraction of a peg. He pulled it off and put it in his other pocket. ‘Now she won’t notice,’ he said airily.

As far as Dominic was concerned the world was almost perfect. The one thing that would have made it complete, was his dad being home when he got there so he could tell him about his win. Next best thing would be telling Mr Quigley, who’d been giving him a few tips on how to play.

When the boys arrived home, their mam was in the kitchen getting the tea ready. Dominic sniffed. Scouse, his favourite meal of all.

‘We won the match, Mam.’ He puffed his chest out and his face glowed with achievement. ‘I scored the only two goals.’

Sheila, who was stirring the pan to make sure the suet dumplings didn’t stick, her face red with perspiration, glanced across at her eldest son. ‘Where’s your pocket?’ she snapped.

‘In the other one,’ Dominic snapped back, irritated that she showed no interest in his glorious success. ‘I’m
going
to write to our dad tonight and tell him.’ He knew the mention of his dad would have a beneficial effect.

It did. Sheila’s expression softened. ‘That’s a nice idea, luv. Perhaps youse kids could all do a letter together. We’ll get Ryan and Mary to put kisses at the end. Your dad might find it waiting for him when he gets to America.’

Niall was hanging back, feeling overshadowed by his brother, and was pleased when his mam ruffled his hair and said, ‘And what did you do today, son?’

‘I got all me sums right, even the multiplication.’

‘Did you now! Your dad’ll be pleased when he hears about that, too.’

Just as if the two achievements were equal, Dominic snorted inwardly. His dad was mad about football, same as every other man in the world.

‘I’m going to see Mr Quigley,’ he told his mam.

‘Your tea’ll be ready in a minute,’ Sheila said sharply. ‘Anyroad, I’m not sure if Jimmy Quigley’ll be all that pleased if you turn up. He’s more than a bit off-putting whenever people call to help.’

‘I’m not going to help him, I’m going to see him,’ Dominic said huffily. He still felt cross with her for not being more impressed with his win.

‘Two-nil! That’s dead good, that is. Two-nil! And you scored ’em both, eh?’

At last, someone who could appreciate the awesome-ness of Dominic’s achievement! Mr Quigley wasn’t just impressed, he wanted to know the full details of each goal, each attempted goal, each goal the other side had tried to score but hadn’t, the precise ability of each player and his height and approximate weight, the nature of the play and the standard and impartiality of the refereeing.

‘What does impartiality mean?’ asked Dominic, only too pleased to go through the entire match kick by kick.

‘Was he fair?’

‘Not so bad. I reckon he favoured the other side a bit more than he did us.’

‘That’s always the case,’ Jimmy said sadly. He regarded Dominic with a proprietorial air, as if he wouldn’t have won if it wasn’t for him. ‘Did you work out who their best player was, like I said, and shadow him whenever he went in your half?’

‘You bet! I never let him out of me sight for a mo. Every time he got near our goal, I was there.’

‘And did you shoot low, like, when you scored the goals? Remember, it’s much easier for a goalie to jump up to stop the ball, rather than bend down to it – unless they’ve got a midget in the goal.’

‘I remembered,’ Dominic nodded. ‘We’ve got another match in two weeks’ time. Sister Gabriel said there’s only sixteen teams left. There was over sixty to begin with.’

‘Who’s Sister Gabriel?’

‘The games teacher.’

Jimmy said nothing, but was shocked to learn they were being taught football by a nun. ‘That means if you win the next match, you’ll be in the quarter finals. What is it you’re playing for?’

‘Some Merseyside junior cup thingy.’

‘It would be dead good for Pearl Street if St Joan of Arc’s won, you being the captain, like.’

Dominic glowed. ‘I suppose it would.’

‘Do you know about nutmegging?’

‘Isn’t that what you put in Christmas puddings?’

‘No, you daft bugger. I’ll show you what nutmegging is. Let’s see, what can I use for a ball?’ Jimmy snatched the knitted teacosy off the teapot. He threw the cosy on the ground and stood up. ‘Get to the far side of the room,’ he instructed. ‘Now, look. I’ve got the ball and you’re coming straight towards me ready to tackle. Come on, lad, tackle!’

He began to dribble the tea cosy across the floor. Dominic reached for it with his foot, but suddenly, the tea cosy was nowhere to be seen. Mr Quigley chuckled. ‘It’s behind you. I shot it between your legs. That’s nutmegging.’

‘I thought you couldn’t walk proper?’ said Dominic.

Mr Quigley sat down abruptly. ‘Well, me legs have started loosening up a bit lately. Someone told me to do exercises and I’ve been doing them every day. It’s made quite a bit of difference. I already manage as far as the King’s Arms with only one stick.’

Dominic wondered why he needed a stick at all after all that fancy footwork. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘because perhaps you could come outside into the street and show me how to do nutmegging with a proper ball, like?’

‘Perhaps I will, lad, one of these days.’ Jimmy nodded. ‘Aye, one of these days I will.’

The German onslaught on Russia continued unabated. They advanced like a typhoon destroying everything before them; everything, that is, that hadn’t already been destroyed by the retreating army and the Russian people. The Russians were looked upon by the invaders as
untermenschen
, sub-humans, which boded ill for the three quarters of a million troops they’d captured by the time hordes of Panzer tanks were a mere fifty miles from Moscow. The citizens of Moscow, including the women and the children, began to build defences around their city and a few days later a state of siege was declared. Odessa fell, shortly followed by Kharkov, and in Leningrad the people starved to death on the streets.

The Germans were desperate for victory before the cold set in, but snow had already fallen in the Caucasus and frost was gripping the Russian Steppes, heralding the onset of their terrifying winter. And, ominously, the Soviet T34 tank was proving to be far superior to the German Panzers; the shells just bounced off.

The leaf which Adolf Hitler had boasted would fall so quickly was tougher than he thought. The leaf hung on, refusing to budge, no matter how frenziedly the tree was shaken.

If the Germans didn’t win soon, if their massive army became bogged down in the raw bleakness of a Soviet winter, ice-bound and snowbound, without the proper equipment and in uniforms unsuitable for such perishing cold, then political commentators predicted it could prove a turning point for the war. The people at large took this with a certain amount of scepticism. So many turning points had been predicted over the last two years, that they were beginning to think they were going around in circles.

In Liverpool, the autumn saw a rush of distinguished visitors who came to express their thanks to the city for the efforts being made to bring about victory and in appreciation of the suffering that had been endured.

King George VI and Queen Elizabeth paid their third visit to the port, followed shortly afterwards by Winston Churchill who spoke to the dockers. The men, all left wing, wouldn’t have given a Conservative politician the time of day under normal circumstances, but circumstances were no longer normal. Left wing, right wing, everyone was now united against a common enemy. They cheered their Prime Minister and he took off his hat to them. ‘I see the spirit of an unconquered people,’ he told them.

Count John McCormack, the great Irish tenor, gave a concert to the workers at Gladstone Dock, and the American Ambassador to the British Isles, John Vinant, came personally to watch cargoes from his country being unloaded. America had not joined in the war officially, but they knew whose side they were on.

Kitty Quigley bade a cheerful ‘Good morning’ to the
Wren
on duty at the reception desk. The young woman smiled a tired greeting in return. She’d been on duty all night and still had two hours to go.

Kitty ran down into the basement, reported in to Nurse Bellamy, filled a bucket, collected a mop and carried them upstairs. Harriet Mansell and Lucy Peterson were already hard at work.

‘You’re early, Luce,’ she remarked. She noticed the girl was sporting a whopping black eye. ‘Don’t tell me your dad’s been at you again?’ she groaned.

Lucy’s dad turned violent when he was the worse for drink, which seemed to be most of the time. He lashed out at his three kids, as if it were their fault life hadn’t turned out the way he’d hoped.

‘You should see what he did to our Hazel!’ Lucy said. ‘I had to take her to the ’ossy on Saturday night. Near broke her arm, he did, though she’s all right now.’

‘Something should be done about that man, Lucy,’ Harriet said grimly.

‘What?’ demanded Lucy. She’d lived with the violence her entire life and accepted it with surprising equanimity. Indeed, she always appeared happier than most people; a cheerful, outgoing girl whom only the most churlish person could dislike.

‘Tell the police, gang up on him. There’s three of you and only one of him.’

‘I couldn’t clat on me own dad, and I couldn’t hit him, either. He doesn’t mean any harm, Harriet, honest. He loves us in his own peculiar way.’

‘Huh!’ Harriet snorted.

They finished the corridor, emptied the bedpans and cleaned the sluice room. When she and Lucy entered the ward to clean, Kitty braced herself for the usual hearty greeting. She still felt slightly embarrassed, even after two weeks, by the eager vocal welcome bestowed on them each morning, though she had learnt to make a few comments back.

‘Get away with you!’ she joked, when one young sailor demanded to be kissed – ‘Me mam always kisses me in the morning.’

‘I’m not your mam, I’m your nurse.’

The young men regarded the auxiliaries as nurses every bit as much as they did the SRNs who’d spent years in training. They formed closer relationships with the women who cleaned their ward, checked their temperatures, made their beds, bathed them, fed them, tidied up their lockers when the MO’s inspection was due, and provided them with bedpans.

Kitty had thought she would die when she was first asked to take a bedpan to a young man with two broken arms.

‘Where do you want it?’ Her voice was so choked up at the back of her throat, it would scarcely come out.

‘Where do you think?’ he grinned. ‘Under me bum, of course.’

Kitty slid the bedpan under the sheet and tried not to look.

‘It might help if you pulled me pants down. I can’t do it with me feet, and as you can see, me arms aren’t exactly in good working order.’

Fitting the urine bottles was even worse. She was all thumbs and on the first occasion the patient grumbled, ‘Hurry up, nurse. I’m bloody busting here.’

‘I didn’t realise men were so hairy down there,’ she said to Lucy later.

There was another cubicle on Kitty’s side which had the curtains drawn that morning. When she reached it, she saw a man and woman sitting on each side of the bed in which a new patient lay, a young man as white as a ghost, breathing in a hoarse laborious way. Each time he let a breath out, he seemed to pause for a fearfully long time, and she saw the man and woman tense and glance at each other, before, suddenly, out came the breath and they relaxed.