The Mersey Daughter (Empire Street #3)(87)



‘I want to help,’ Ruby said, her big eyes gazing at Rita. ‘But I trust you. You are good at sorting things out. As long as you know it will be Wednesday.’

‘All right, I’ll be extra-vigilant on Wednesday,’ Rita promised, figuring that Ruby wouldn’t settle unless she agreed. ‘Now you stop worrying and lie down and make yourself comfortable. That’s better. And look, here’s Maeve, come to see if you’ve woken up.’

The Irish nurse beamed in delight as she arrived with two cups of tea. ‘Well, will you look at that. Our patient is better. Will I get you a cup of tea as well, Ruby? Wouldn’t you like that?’

Ruby shook her head. ‘No, thank you very much,’ she said politely. ‘I want to go back to sleep now.’

‘You do that,’ Rita said, relieved that Ruby seemed calmer now she had remembered her piece of vital information. ‘We’ll go and leave you in peace. I’ll see you tomorrow, and with luck you’ll be coming home.’ She bent and planted a small kiss on Ruby’s head, then quietly followed Maeve away from the ward and along to the welfare area. Well, that was one less thing to worry about: Ruby seemed fundamentally unshaken by the events of Monday night. As for the suggestion that something was about to happen on Wednesday, Rita would deal with that when the time came. There was only so much a person could cope with at any one moment – and she had just about reached her limit.

‘Oh, this is nice!’

Sylvia Hemsley looked up at the curves of the building above the ornate main door to the pub where Frank had taken her. She’d never seen anything like it. The windows were mullioned and there were domes right at the top. It was beautiful and impressive both at the same time.

‘Do you like it?’ Frank grinned. He’d guessed she’d be surprised by the place. While the Philharmonic Dining Rooms wasn’t where he would usually choose to come, being too far from Derby House and his billet, he knew it would be somewhere she would appreciate. ‘Well, wait till you see inside.’

He pushed open the heavy door, careful to keep his balance. He’d managed to walk all the way from the bunker to the pub, even though some of it was uphill, and he didn’t want to spoil things now. He was doing his very best to move as normally as possible. Sylvia hadn’t known him before his injury, of course, but neither had she seen him when it had been new and raw, before he’d got the hang of his false leg. She was judging him by how he was now, and this was as good as he was likely to get. So he didn’t want to mess it up.

Sylvia’s cheeks were rosy from the cold but also, he realised, from anticipation. They hadn’t gone for a drink together before, or at least not as a couple, on their own. She’d been amusing company when he’d shown her the waterfront, admiring the Liver Birds as they guarded the city from on high, taking in the expanse of the Mersey as it flowed northwards past the docks and his home. He’d seen her around at work several times since and they’d had tea or cocoa at breaks between shifts, but always with other colleagues around as well. Now he had grasped the nettle and asked her to come for a drink, half expecting her to say no or to make an excuse. But she hadn’t. She had accepted at once, her bright eyes dancing with mischief, apparently glad to be with him and to learn more about him. For the first time in a long while, Frank had felt optimistic.

‘Don’t tell me this is your local,’ she said now, as he led her to a corner with plush seating, from where she could appreciate the elaborate décor of the place.

‘Not exactly,’ admitted Frank, thinking of how different this was to the Sailor’s Rest, or even Bent-nose Jake’s down at Canada Dock. ‘I’m not sure I’d take you there, to be honest. I used to come here before the war, though, if I was out in town.’

‘If you wanted to impress a girl,’ Sylvia guessed, and from his reaction she could tell she’d been right. ‘I can see why. It’s splendid, isn’t it? All … what do you call it?’

‘Art Nouveau,’ Frank told her, hoping he’d said it right and not adding that he’d never heard the term back in those days – when he’d played the field without a care in the world, before he’d lost a leg. ‘What would you like to drink?’

Sylvia slipped off her warm coat with its fake fur collar, which she’d bought second-hand especially for their date. She was glad she’d made the effort. All around people seemed to have done the same, making the best of what wartime Liverpool could offer, splashes of vibrant colour amid the uniforms of the servicemen and -women enjoying time off. Frank was still in his; she was proud of the way he looked in his navy jacket, now bearing the insignia of a sublieutenant. She tried to work out what other women her age were drinking, but it was beyond her, so she played it safe. ‘A lemonade, please.’

Frank nodded and set off for the bar. She watched him, aware of how much effort he was making not to limp or reveal in any way that he used a false leg. If he was doing so for her, he needn’t have worried. Everyone at Derby House knew about it and that he’d been injured in the war, which made him a hero in her book. She’d never been bothered by it. Plenty of people had war wounds and, if she wasn’t mistaken, there would be a whole lot more before it all finished. You couldn’t go around discounting anyone for that reason. She liked Frank for who he was – good company, funny, sharp, always interesting, with opinions on all manner of subjects. He was just the sort of person she’d hoped to meet when she’d signed up. She loved her home and the majesty of the great hills and lakes, but she wanted more.

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