Winter on the Mersey(65)

She had just convinced herself that she’d got it wrong when it came again, louder this time. It was from the front. Carefully she eased open the door from the kitchen and closed it again once she’d passed through, so that the low light of the fire did not illuminate the hallway.

Someone was outside – she could hear their heavy breathing. Then she gasped as whoever it was tried the door handle. They rattled it – that was what she had heard before. They were trying to get into the house. For a moment she wondered if it could be one of her neighbours, but knew that wasn’t likely. Sarah or Rita would go round to the back door as often as not, and any of them wanting to come in at this time of night would have knocked and called her name.

There was very little light in the hall, but she could make out the shadows around the doorway. She had sewn a makeshift curtain out of an old chenille tablecloth to hang across the inside of the door, fastened to a rod at the top so that it would swing with the door as it opened or closed. That kept the worst of the draughts out. Now whoever it was must be poking their hand through the letterbox, as the curtain moved and jerked. Kitty could hear her heart hammering in her ears. All the same, she reasoned that she had locked up earlier in the evening and it was a good, stout lock – again thanks to Danny’s forethought. Perhaps the person thought they’d find a key dangling on a string inside. Time was they might have left one there, accessible through the letterbox, or have left the door completely unlocked, but with the war making everything so uncertain, they didn’t take risks like that any more.

After what seemed like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, the person gave up trying to get in through the door. Then came several footsteps as the person moved away. Kitty held her breath. What if they tried to break the parlour window? She calmed herself by thinking they probably wouldn’t; the noise would wake too many people. Did they know the way in around the back? She breathed out slowly. She knew she had locked and bolted that door too. Had Tommy left his bike in the yard – maybe this person knew about it and wanted to steal it? No, he’d propped it in the hallway, even though she’d repeatedly asked him to wheel it around the back into the yard to get it out of the way. Now she was glad he’d ignored her.

Cautiously she opened the parlour door and crept closer to the window. The curtain was closed but she could hear someone was there. There was a very slight scrabbling, then silence, which seemed to go on for ever.

Then came more footsteps from the bottom of the street, and a flash of light as if someone was carrying a torch. A voice called out, ‘You there!’ It was Pop, on his ARP rounds. Then there was a shout and more footsteps, this time running away from the front of her house. Carefully she drew back a corner of the curtain and saw the bulk of a figure running away. Pop began to give chase but stopped before the end of the road, she assumed because he knew he’d frightened the person away. His white hair made him clearly visible in the light of a waning moon.

She wanted to tell herself that it was just a random burglar, perhaps one who’d heard about the bike, or someone who’d chosen her house out of sheer chance. However, she didn’t really believe it. She’d only had the briefest of moments to pick out the fleeing figure, but that had been enough. It was Alfie Delaney.

Pop came back up the road and tapped gently on her front door. She cautiously unlocked it and opened it a little. The cold air rushed in. ‘You all right, Kitty? I saw your curtain move,’ Pop said.

‘Yes … yes, I’m fine,’ said Kitty, trying to convince herself as much as anything. ‘I heard what I thought was someone trying the handle of the door – and then when I looked out I thought I saw Alfie Delaney running away.’

Pop grunted. ‘There was someone, but I didn’t catch who it was. I’d be surprised if he dared show himself on Empire Street again after that affair with the poisoned meat. He’ll have the good sense to stay well away,’ he told her reassuringly. ‘Good night, now.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Kitty, smiling at the kindly figure of her father before carefully shutting and locking the door once more. She wanted him to be right – but she had a sinking feeling he wasn’t.

‘Sylvia! Hang on, I’ll just put this lot of paper down.’ Frank dumped an armful of carefully clipped meeting agendas on to the nearest desk and then turned to smile at the pretty young Wren. ‘It feels as if I haven’t seen you for ages.’

Sylvia blushed a little. ‘Hardly ages, Frank. We went to the pictures to see Arsenic and Old Lace a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Well, two weeks seems like a long time,’ he grinned. ‘Fancy going again? I couldn’t stop laughing.’

‘It was funny, wasn’t it. And that Cary Grant is so good-looking.’ Sylvia smiled back but seemed more flustered than usual. Frank was surprised; he couldn’t remember seeing her rushed or panicked by anything.

‘So, how about it?’ he asked again. ‘We can go to anything you fancy. There’s bound to be lots of good ones on now we’re in the run-up to Christmas.’

Sylvia shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m not sure, Frank. I’m a bit on edge at the moment.’

Frank fell into step beside her as they moved along the underground corridor. ‘I can see. What’s up?’

She came to a halt. ‘Oh Frank, it’s Dad again. He’s been proper poorly. I can’t think about going out in the evenings at the moment. If I get any time off I’ll have to go home again, to help Mum out. I keep waiting for a telegram or a phone call; I’m dreading more bad news. It’s terrible and I’m sorry, but it’s on my mind all the time.’