Winter on the Mersey(54)

She pulled her arm away harder and heard the fabric of her sleeve rip as she got free.

‘Now look what you’ve done, Kitty. You’ve gone and ruined your nice cardigan,’ Alfie scolded. ‘You’ll get cold now. Go on, get in, my car’s nice and warm.’

Kitty backed away, still facing him. ‘Go home, Alfie. I’m not getting in that car with you.’

Alfie made as if to take a step towards her, his expression now far from friendly, when abruptly he halted. There were footsteps behind her – with a slightly irregular rhythm. She swung around and there was Frank.

Her eyes widened. ‘F … Frank!’ Her mind spun, then she gathered her wits in a hurry. ‘I was just coming to meet you. You … you took me by surprise coming from the other direction.’ She widened her eyes at him and hoped he caught her meaning.

He stared for a moment but then cottoned on. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was waylaid, I’ll explain later.’ He looked at Alfie. ‘Mr Delaney. I’d heard you were back.’

‘Alfie’s just going,’ said Kitty. ‘Aren’t you?’ She glared at him.

For a moment she thought he would protest and even try to take out his frustration on Frank, but common sense seemed to prevail as he realised he was outnumbered and Kitty really had no intention of getting in the car with him. He turned on his heel without another word, got into the car and slammed the door heavily, before accelerating noisily away.

Kitty felt her shoulders sagging in relief. Frank caught her by the elbow and noticed the ripped wool.

‘Good lord, Kitty, what’s wrong? What did he do to you?’ He could feel fury boiling inside him.

‘It’s nothing, it’s nothing.’ She took a couple of deep breaths. ‘He just saw me walking along and wanted to give me a lift. He wasn’t very happy when I said no.’

‘But your arm,’ said Frank, touching the rip in concern.

Kitty felt her flesh react to his touch, even as she tried to minimise the danger she’d been in. ‘It’s just an old cardie, it rips at the slightest thing. He didn’t hurt me. Really, it’s all right.’ Now she was embarrassed and didn’t want to cause a fuss.

‘Damn him, Kitty, he’s got no right to behave like that,’ Frank fumed. ‘I’m glad I came along when I did.’

‘So am I,’ Kitty admitted. ‘Are you going back to your digs?’

‘Yes. I’d been to the cinema with Sylvia and just walked her to her bus stop. Shall I walk you to yours? You are heading back to Bootle, aren’t you?’

For a split second Kitty’s heart dropped at the mention of Sylvia’s name, then she told herself not to be silly and to be thankful that Frank had been out with the pretty young Wren, or he wouldn’t have been here to come to her rescue. She should simply tell him to go on his way, that she was all right. But here he was, looking at her with those warm, caring eyes, and suddenly the thought of his company, even if only as far as the bus stop, seemed very appealing.

‘Yes, please,’ she said.

Tommy was pleased with his first session of PT. He could tell everyone was looking at him to see how he would cope, whether he was fit enough to cycle around the city all day. But years of helping on the farm had toned his muscles and he breezed through the exercises without a problem, barely breaking a sweat. He noticed one or two of the old timers nodding in approval. He wasn’t the only new recruit, and a couple of them seemed to be struggling, which drew several disapproving glances. He was glad he’d got through that part of the morning.

Now he was out on his first real job. ‘You do know where this address is, don’t you?’ his supervisor had said, unsure about the new boy in his team.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tommy confidently. ‘It’s around the corner from Oriel Road station. I know it like the back of my hand.’ He’d set off at top speed, handling the red bike as if he’d had it for years, negotiating the potholes in the road, feeling the sun on his face. What a stroke of luck he’d got this job. He was going to enjoy himself, he could tell.

It took him no time at all to find the address and he swung himself off the bike, propping it against a low wall. This must be the door: a tarnished brass number 5 hung at a crooked angle above the letterbox. He rapped smartly on the wooden panel.

He noticed a net curtain twitch in the neighbouring house but couldn’t see more than an outline of a figure behind it. Now he could hear the sound of footsteps and the door opened. In front of him stood a young woman, pretty, with long chestnut hair neatly plaited, but in a threadbare apron and a print dress frayed at the edges. She must be about Sarah’s age. When she saw who he was, her face fell.

Tommy’s mood of happiness evaporated as the meaning of what he was about to do hit home. He knew he couldn’t show his feelings, though. He checked the name he’d been given and asked her: ‘Mrs Pelham? Mrs Vincent Pelham?’

‘Y-yes.’ The woman held her head up but her eyes were already beginning to fill with tears.

Tommy handed her the telegram and she immediately scanned what it said. A single sob escaped her.

‘Oh, no. Not my Vince. Not Vince.’

Tommy squirmed awkwardly. He shuffled his feet, not sure what to say.

The woman slumped against the doorframe and shut her eyes. Then, as if remembering where she was, she felt in her patch pocket and drew out a small coin. She handed it to him. ‘For your trouble,’ she said very quietly.