Winter on the Mersey(45)

Peter had survived the landings and had made it back to his base near Portsmouth, and so she’d been able to hear first hand about the horrors and successes of the operation. He had come through unscathed, and full of admiration for the way it had been planned. ‘That was down to you too, my darling,’ she’d told him, on the one night they’d managed to snatch at his uncle’s flat. ‘Those boring old meetings paid off.’ She was terribly proud of him, and mightily relieved he was back in one piece, but there was a strong likelihood he would be back at sea shortly. However, he had taken to persuading colleagues who were sent to London from their south coast base to seek her out if their paths looked likely to cross, passing her messages to cheer her up. It was an unconventional way of getting news, but it made her day to know that he was thinking about her.

It was one such encounter that had brought about her state of indecision. Yesterday she had just stood down from duty and had chosen to walk through Regent’s Park to make the most of the sunny day, glad to have finished her shift driving a particularly unpleasant naval officer, who seemed to think that her company later in the evening would be part of the service. She had put him right politely but firmly, wishing she could have told him exactly what she thought of him. If he tried it again she’d report him, she thought angrily. She’d been wandering down one of the less frequented paths when a man in a drab grey jacket had approached her, his distinguishing features blocked out by the brightness of the sun behind him. ‘Miss Fawcett?’ he’d asked, in a voice she could only have described as nondescript.

She’d looked directly at him, neither denying nor confirming her name – she had no idea who this was and the light was such she would have struggled to recognise even a reasonable acquaintance.

‘Message for you,’ he’d said, pressing a small piece of paper into her hand, then he was gone.

Well, that was a new twist from Peter, she’d thought, and made her way back to the rather grim little attic room, which was too hot in the summer and would probably be freezing in the winter. She’d opened the flaking window as far as it would go, and stood by it before taking out the paper and unfolding it.

If it was from Peter, it wasn’t his writing. It was a scrawl, almost as if it had been deliberately disguised.

Back soon. Safe and well. Don’t worry.

It had no name, date, or any way of telling where or who it was from.

She had stared at it, held it up to the light, sniffed it to see if it had any trace of lemon juice or substances said to be used in invisible ink, even while telling herself not to be so stupid. It was most likely a silly joke.

She’d put it to one side and left it overnight, half believing when she woke up that she’d dreamt the whole thing. But she hadn’t. It was still there, curling in the dry air. In the morning light the ink looked a little faded, as if the message had been written some while ago. Could this letter possibly be from the one person that she desperately wanted it to be? Freddy – her brother – missing presumed dead.

This was all too much to decipher on her own. She didn’t want to bother Peter – and he might not even be ashore right now. The only person she could think of who might have an idea was Kitty. There was no chance that she’d risk putting the details in a letter, but she could talk to her in person. She was owed some leave. She could go to see her parents, a long-overdue visit. And meet Kitty at Crewe, if they could co-ordinate it. She just had to stress how urgent it was, without unduly alarming her friend. She thought she’d got the tone about right, and with nothing that would annoy the censor. Nodding firmly, she slipped the letter into an envelope and made her way down the rickety uncarpeted stairs to post it.

She hated allowing herself to be taunted by false hope, but ever since Freddy had disappeared, she had thought about the ways in which he might make contact, if by a miracle he had survived. Of course it was a long shot. But she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that it was what she wanted to be behind this strange little note.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t Tommy Callaghan.’

Tommy looked up from where he’d been kicking a stone along the dock road. He squinted into the sun. The voice sounded familiar but it took him a moment to put a name to the face. He realised that the man had changed since he’d last seen him – he’d almost gone bald. His scalp shone pink through the remainder of his closely cropped hair.

‘Hello, Alfie,’ he said.

‘How’s it going then?’ said Alfie. ‘I heard you were coming back. Home for good, are you?’

Tommy shrugged. ‘Suppose so.’

‘Bet you’re glad to be back in the thick of things and not stuck out in the sticks any more,’ Alfie went on.

Tommy looked dubious. ‘How do you know where I was?’

Alfie gave a big, open smile. ‘Oh, word gets round, you know how it is. I travel around a lot as well. It wouldn’t have been my sort of place, I can tell you that for nothing.’

Tommy wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. ‘It was all right,’ he said shortly. If he was honest, he missed the farm and Joan and Seth, who’d been like family to him. He also missed Michael and Megan more than he’d thought he would. Acting the big brother to them had made him feel important and grown-up. Round here he was back to being the little brother once more. He wasn’t going to say that to Alfie though.