Winter on the Mersey(37)

The women made arrangements for the following day, while Danny rerolled his shirt sleeves. He was heartened by the news and to see normal life resuming – but his thoughts were far away, over the sea in France, with the brave fighters now embarked on their biggest operation yet.





CHAPTER TWELVE


Violet held up the old knitted scarf to the daylight streaming through her bedroom window. She looked at it critically, then refolded it and put it back in the bag. It didn’t fit the bill. She rummaged around in the collection Dolly kept of unused clothes or bits and pieces that could be remade until she came across a softer garment. Pulling it out of the pile she saw it was a shawl in pale green. That would be just the thing.

Baby Ellen was getting bigger by the day, and beginning to outgrow all the clothes that her doting extended family had made for her. Violet knew she herself was no great shakes at knitting, but she could help by unravelling the yarn of something that wasn’t being worn, and then someone more expert could reshape it into a little garment. Dolly or Sarah, perhaps. Kitty wouldn’t have time, and Nancy had never been seen to pick up two needles, much less do anything useful with them. Then again, she told herself sternly, Nancy had been noticeably subdued of late. Perhaps the news from across the channel was finally sinking in and making her more responsible. She shook her head. Pigs might fly.

Gathering up the shawl, she made her way downstairs. Her legs were weary and reluctant. She didn’t know what was wrong with her – she’d never felt so tired before. Perhaps it was the strain of the war catching up with her, the constant sense of being on edge, and yet she couldn’t fathom why it would hit her now. They’d been in far greater danger before, dodging the bombs as they landed on the city, and especially here near the docks. All the while she had known that Eddy was in deep peril out on the Atlantic with the U-boats lying in wait. Yet she’d kept on without complaint. Even though they’d lived with the knowledge that the country was at imminent risk of invasion, she’d found the energy to get out of bed, do a day’s work, and live up to the expectation that she’d be the one to cheer people up.

Now, a couple of weeks after what everyone was calling D-day, news continued to be good and there was a cautious air of optimism around. She shared it, reasoning that Eddy was safer than he’d ever been, and that probably meant Jack was too – which made Rita more settled, and so Ellen was generally a happy baby. Maybe I just need a tonic, she thought, going into the parlour and setting the shawl on a side table. Then a glimpse of movement on the pavement outside caught her eye.

Rita was checking the shelves near the shop door, rearranging the jars of Marmite to make it look as if they had more than they really did, when she saw a figure draw up to the house opposite. For a moment she carried on counting the jars, making sure none of them had dust on their lids, and then it hit her. It was a telegram boy. He was propping his bicycle against the wall of her parents’ house. With her heart in her mouth, she watched what he did next. Perhaps he was going to knock at the door of a different house. For a terrifying moment she thought it might be her door; that he was coming with news of Jack. Then he took something from his pocket before rapping hard on the fading paintwork. In her heart of hearts, Rita knew this could mean only one thing.

There was Violet opening the door, her expression welcoming and friendly to begin with, changing to stunned disbelief as the boy gave her the telegram. She held on to the doorframe and Rita could see her hands were shaking as she read the piece of paper. Rita waited no longer, but turned and ran to behind the counter where Ellen lay in her Moses basket. Scooping up the baby, she called through to the kitchen for Ruby to mind the shop. Then, baby on her shoulder, she dashed across the road to where Violet sat on the front step, telegram in her hand, face as still as a statue.

The boy on the bicycle rounded the corner at the bottom of the street and disappeared down the dock road.

Violet didn’t glance up as Rita sank down beside her. ‘Oh, Violet, I saw the telegram boy. What’s happened? What does it say?’ She reached across and took the telegram from her friend’s hand, which was stone cold, even though it was a warm and sunny morning. Although Rita feared the worst, she still harboured a tiny fragment of hope that it was a mistake, or something trivial, or that if she didn’t read the words then it wouldn’t be true. But even as she thought these things, she knew she was clutching at straws. There was only one piece of news that merited the telegram boy in such a hurry and which would have had this effect on the recipient.

There it was, in black and white. There was no room for doubt. Eddy was dead.

Her hand flew to her mouth. No, it couldn’t be true. Not Eddy. Not her beloved brother. He’d been here only a couple of months ago, laughing and joking and passing round the rum, playing the piano. How could someone so lively be dead? It wasn’t possible. They had to have got the wrong Eddy Feeny. He must have swapped his uniform or …

Beside her, Violet suddenly began to shudder. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Rita put one arm around her friend’s shoulder as she held baby Ellen with the other. She was trembling herself, but knew she had to take charge. ‘Come on, let’s go inside. Is anybody else in?’

For a brief moment Violet looked at her as if she didn’t know her, as if she was speaking a foreign language. Her eyes were wide behind their horn-rimmed glasses. Then she shook her head. ‘Out. They’re all out.’