Winter on the Mersey(40)
The man shifted again, looking down directly into Alfie’s face. The strain of trying to look open and pleasant was killing him, but he didn’t let down his guard, grinning away for all he was worth, playing the part of fond friend of the family.
‘Bootle,’ the man said shortly. ‘That’s where they’re all from, isn’t it? He’s gone back there.’ With that he gee’d up the horse and moved off, the cart swaying along the lane past the farm and beyond it around another corner.
Alfie was left standing there, hotter than ever, and now cursing his luck. His eye twitched a little in frustration. He’d come all the way out here and Tommy sodding Callaghan had been just around the corner after all. Typical bloody Callaghans, sitting pretty while everyone else did all the work. But no, that wasn’t fair. Kitty wasn’t like that. He gritted his teeth. He mustn’t give up; only fools were afraid to take what was theirs by right. He’d just have to go back home, find Tommy for a moment on his own in Empire Street and ingratiate himself that way. Yes, he told himself, it would be worth it in the long run. He had to keep his eyes on the prize: Kitty.
Dolly tried to summon up the enthusiasm to go to her make-do-and-mend group, but she just couldn’t. To begin with the group had met in her parlour, but it had outgrown the modest room and now gathered at the church hall. Dolly was the leader, encouraging young wives to try different ways of sprucing up old clothes, using upholstery fabric for dressmaking, unpicking or patching or generally producing purses out of pigs’ ears. They needed her with her years of experience, the result of raising five children and keeping them warmly clothed. She knew it, but she felt as if she didn’t have it in her to leave the house, let alone make it as far as the hall.
The news about Eddy had floored her. It had been so unexpected. Like Violet, she’d been on tenterhooks for all those years that he was dodging the U-boats, but had relaxed and assumed he was safe now most of that was over. She had had no idea that he could have been part of D-day. Looking back, she realised that Frank had gently tried to warn her, without giving away what he knew, but she had brushed his vague words aside. Her Eddy – her baby boy. It seemed no time at all since he was a toddler, always trying to catch up with his big brother, putting up with little Nancy’s tantrums, never making a fuss but always having his own way of doing things. She didn’t know how she could go on without him.
Some people tried to be kind, pointing out that Frank was safe in his position, and that she still had her girls, so she should be thankful. It didn’t help. For one thing, Frank had lost his leg on active duty, and you still couldn’t say for sure that Liverpool city centre wouldn’t be a target again. Rita’s hospital had been attacked in the past – look at what had happened to Elliott, killed by a bomb just after leaving his shift. Or when Sarah’s colleague had died just outside their nursing station during a heavy raid on the docks. Even Nancy was at risk. Besides, the fact that you had other children didn’t take away the pain of losing one. Eddy was irreplaceable. He wasn’t a younger version of Frank; he wasn’t just a brother to his sisters. She missed him as if she’d lost a limb. There was a permanent ache, a sense of something out of balance, a gaping wound.
She tried not to show it too much around the house because everyone was feeling devastated, everyone wrestling with their own sorrow. Dolly had managed to get to the church to see Father Harding, who had been a tower of strength, explaining that this was a test of her faith. He had helped her back when news had come of her parents dying, and also when Pop’s parents had died, all of them over in Ireland, at respectable ages. That had been scant practice for how Eddy’s death had hit both her and Pop. She was glad they had each other, even though Pop didn’t, or couldn’t, say much. But she knew he was feeling the pain and also sympathising with hers. They both had done their best to comfort their daughter-in-law, who was so dear to them.
Poor Violet would never know that support from her husband again. The young woman moved through rooms like a ghost, barely speaking, her face pale and her body shaking as if she was cold all the time, even though it was the height of summer. Much of the time she stayed in her bedroom. It was as if the old Violet, the one who never kept still but was always helping at the shop or the victory garden or the WVS, had totally disappeared. She hardly spoke. The only times she seemed at all lively were when Georgie or baby Ellen were in the house. Then she would stir herself and try to play with them like she used to, but it wasn’t the same. Georgie had picked up that something was wrong, but Dolly couldn’t find the words to explain to him. He was only four, and he had barely known Eddy, after all.
There was the sound of movement upstairs and then the creaking of the stair boards. Dolly looked up, pushing a lock of greying hair out of her eye, as Violet came into the kitchen, walking slowly and stiffly, her shabby dress hanging off her always-lanky frame. She said nothing as Dolly tried to catch her eye, but went straight through to the back kitchen and out of the back door, before Dolly heard the slam of the privy door. Then, although she tried not to listen, there followed the unmistakeable heaves of someone being sick. Poor Violet. But what had happened to her was enough to make anyone sick. Wasn’t it? Dolly thought dully that for two pins she’d join her.
After a few minutes the back door opened again. Dolly could see Violet fetching a glass of water and sipping it standing at the sink. She set it down and held on to the draining board, as if she didn’t have the strength to stand unaided. Dolly’s heart went out to her.