Nancy had arrived back later than she’d planned, having stayed longer at the Parkers’ house than usual. Georgie was quiet, too cold to talk for once. Nancy had some thinking to do. Maggie Parker, as was, had always been kind and accommodating, but she’d pointed out they couldn’t go on minding Georgie as often any more. Nancy had agreed because she’d had no choice. She didn’t want them thinking she was taking advantage of their goodness, though in some ways she knew she was.
‘He’s spending almost as much time here as he is at his own house,’ Maggie had said forthrightly. ‘He’s a lovely little soul, don’t get me wrong, but it’s getting to the stage where I can’t go out when I need to because he’s here again. We’ll have to get him his own ration book soon.’
‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised,’ Nancy had murmured, deeply embarrassed. She knew she’d have to think again about how she would manage things.
She considered her other options. Violet was growing bigger and bigger, her own baby nearly due, and so her mother’s house revolved around getting everything done before the child arrived. Any spare time was taken up with looking after Ellen, now crawling and getting in the way of everyone. On top of that Dolly sometimes saw to Tommy’s evening meal as well, if Kitty was on lates. Nancy tapped her front teeth with one of her elegant nails. Tommy liked Georgie. Maybe he would like to mind him when he finished work? She could pay him a few pennies, make it worth his while. She’d think about it.
‘Is that you?’ called the hated voice of her mother-in-law.
‘Here, Georgie, let me have your coat,’ Nancy said, bending to help unbutton the toggles on the duffel coat that her son was fast outgrowing. ‘Of course it is,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘Who else would it bloody be?’ she muttered under her breath. It wasn’t as if the woman had any close friends who might come round. Her general air of spite and misery had made sure of that.
The Parkers had fed Georgie, and so Nancy took him up to bed, tucking him in, pulling the curtains against the bright moonlight. She looked at his pinched face as it turned on his threadbare pillow. He looked like his father, which sometimes gave her a jolt. The child had never even met him. Nancy gave a little shiver. She tried not to think about Sid if she could help it. There was nothing she could do about his situation anyway. She ran her hand over her son’s brow, and murmured to him to sleep tight. Then she slipped quietly from the room and down to the front parlour, which was hers alone.
Lighting the mean amount of kindling in the grate, she pulled a chair close to it and drew out her precious letter. There was just enough light to reread it by. She savoured its short message.
Gary would be home for Christmas. He’d finally found time to write to her properly and he said he’d been thinking of her all the while, as his unit fought its way across France, liberating the people and advancing the Allied cause. The knowledge that she was there back in England waiting for him had driven him onward, giving him a reason to survive. ‘I hope you’ll be giving me a warm welcome,’ he’d said, and a little tremble of anticipation shot through her. It wasn’t exactly a passionate letter on the face of it, but she could read between the lines. Gary was clever – he’d know that the censor would read it first and would have no wish to embarrass her by being any more graphic. But she could tell what he meant all right. Well, far be it from her to deny a fighting hero his comforts when he made it back.
Carefully she refolded the letter and tucked it inside a book on the shelves beside the mantelpiece. The Encyclopaedia Britannica – it wasn’t very likely that her mother-in-law would look in there. She barely lifted the newspaper, even though her usually absent husband worked on the Liverpool Post on permanent night shift. Nancy nodded in satisfaction. It might be pie in the sky, but she had begun to dream that Gary would somehow get her out of this cold, loveless place, rescue her from Mrs Kerrigan’s meanness and the soulless existence she’d got used to. Who knew what might happen once he came home?
Kitty hated it when she got back so late that she didn’t have time to make a meal for Tommy. If she knew she would be working well past when he usually ate, she cooked the night before and left a pot of stew on the cold shelf in the larder, along with a note on the kitchen table to remind him to heat it up. The problem came when she was asked to stay on at the end of a normal day shift, which wasn’t uncommon. She could hardly say no. It was never for a trivial reason and she knew it was her duty to agree.
Tommy wouldn’t be going hungry; Dolly would see that he ate something hot, or if she was busy then someone else would step in. Kitty wasn’t worried that her little brother would starve. It was more that cooking for them both and then eating together gave her a chance to talk to him, to find out how his work was going, to see if there had been any difficult deliveries in the day, and to check that there had been no repeat of the episode Sarah had told her about.
Kitty had felt a wave of panic when she’d heard. How dared Alfie take Tommy out and get him drunk? Anything might have happened to him. What if Sarah hadn’t chanced to be there when he’d made it home? What if he hadn’t made it home at all? Just walking along the street was dangerous, with all the potholes and debris, especially in the dark. Trying to do so when affected by drink would have been far worse. Kitty had never been drunk herself, but she’d seen her father staggering around often enough to know what it did to your sense of balance and direction. She was filled with a confusing mixture of emotions: disgust at Alfie taking blatant advantage of someone too young to know better; frustration that Tommy hadn’t simply said no; and almost overwhelming anxiety that she hadn’t been able to keep him safe. Now that Danny was away it fell to her alone, and sometimes she felt that she wasn’t up to the task. She was also alarmed when she took a moment to imagine what Alfie’s deeper motives might be. She didn’t want him anywhere near her house or family. He made her flesh creep. There was something not right about him – more than his reputation as a spivvy black marketeer warranted. If only Danny could come back soon.
Now here she was, late back once more, and wondering what awaited her as she opened the front door. She didn’t really think that Tommy would be down the pub with Alfie again; she’d sat him down and had a long talk with him, about how she had to rely on him to act like an adult now, and he had to live up to her expectations. He had agreed, desperately sorry that he’d disgraced himself. They had hugged and made up and she hoped that he would abide by his promise. Yet, now that it had happened once, she dreaded him doing something similar again.
She broke into a smile as she saw that for tonight at least there was no cause for anxiety. Tommy had got the fire going and the kitchen was toasty warm, and he was sitting at the table with what Kitty recognised as one of Dolly’s casseroles in front of him. She’d have to make sure to return the favour as soon as she could. Dolly was so generous but Kitty knew stretching the ration for this wouldn’t have been easy.
‘I haven’t eaten it all!’ was how he greeted her. ‘Aunty Dolly made sure there was enough for you as well. You just need to warm it up.’
Kitty ruffled the top of his head, because she knew it would annoy him. ‘Thanks, Tommy. It’s just what I need. I’ll go and hang up my coat.’ She gave a heartfelt sigh of relief once he couldn’t hear her. She really hadn’t felt like cooking after such a long day. Now she could tuck in to one of Dolly’s hearty meals, no doubt full of the root vegetables that she grew in the victory garden.
Tommy was scraping the last of the juices from his plate as she took her seat opposite him. Just as she had hoped, the food was delicious, as Dolly had always been a dab hand at making something out of nothing. ‘Next time I have a day off I’ll make Dolly and Pop a nice pie to make up for their kindness,’ she said. ‘Do you think they’d like that, Tommy?’
‘They’d love it, I bet,’ he said seriously. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that he’d been very privileged these last few years, living out on the farm and eating all the produce there. He’d barely noticed that food was rationed. Now he had to come to terms with the grim reality of powdered eggs and very meagre amounts of butter, as well as all the other shortages and restrictions. He knew that Kitty and Dolly often swapped and shared what was available, but it didn’t compare to what he’d taken for granted before.
Kitty polished off the last of the stew and reached across the table. ‘Give me your plate – I’ll wash up. Do you want to listen to the wireless for a bit? There might be a Glenn Miller concert – you like him.’
Tommy shook his head. ‘I’ll have an early night, I think,’ he said. ‘I had to cover a big area today and I’m dead beat.’
Kitty nodded at the maturity of this. Maybe he had learnt his lesson. ‘All right then. I’ll say good night now, and see you in the morning.’
‘Night, Kitty.’ Tommy gave her a grin and went clattering up the stairs two at a time.
Kitty went into the hall after him and locked the front door while she remembered. That had been Danny’s job, and she always made herself do it in good time now, in case it slipped her mind when she was more tired later on. Then she set about doing the washing-up and left the clean casserole dish on the table so she could take it back to Dolly’s the next day. She put on the kettle for a cup of tea and added one more log to the fire. Tommy might want an early bed, but she wanted to read for a while and to let the events of the day settle. Then she’d catch the late news on the wireless.
She took out the latest letter from Laura. Kitty shook her head in amazement. How she wished she could see her friend now that Freddy had made it safely home. Laura had dashed off a hurried note as soon as the miracle had happened, and then followed it with a series of longer letters, explaining more fully how he had returned to safety; Kitty had managed to work out the gist of the events, despite the censor’s best efforts. He was now receiving treatment at a specialist hospital, as the blow to his head had caused long-lasting damage, and his burns had left their traces, but he was gaining strength day by day and his hair had even begun to grow more normally. Laura’s relief was evident.
There had still been no word about Marjorie, though. Laura feared this was affecting Freddy’s recovery, as he felt guilty that he’d survived when she maybe had not. Laura kept trying to tell him that didn’t make sense, but she admitted to Kitty that logic didn’t enter into it. All they could do was hope.
Kitty had to agree. Just about everyone she knew felt this in some shape or form: they were lucky to be alive when others close to them hadn’t been so fortunate. The bomb that had killed Elliott could have landed on the hospital and killed Rita too. Any of the houses on Empire Street could have been destroyed in the raids, but only old Mrs Ashby’s had suffered really badly. She knew she had to count her blessings. She and Tommy had a roof over their heads; so did the Feenys, and so did Rita and Ruby in the flat above the shop. Their sufferings were as nothing compared to those of the thousands who had lost their homes.
She picked up her book, which she’d left on the mantelpiece, but decided her eyes were too tired after all, and so she put it down again. Had she locked the back door? She checked it – of course she had.
She was about to turn on the wireless for the news when she heard a noise. Startled, she stood up straight and strained her ears, trying to tell where it had come from. Had she been mistaken? It was easy to imagine such things. There was nothing other than the usual sounds from the small back yard – the cat from the end of the road yowling or dislodging stones. There were always a few odd noises, she reassured herself. Old houses creaked and there was no getting away from that.
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.’
Frank could hear the concern in her voice. ‘I’m so sorry, Sylvia. Of course you must see what happens. What a thing to have to think about, and when it’s almost Christmas, of all times.’
Sylvia nodded, and for a moment he thought she was going to lose her composure and start to cry, but she bit her lip and gathered herself together. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t like to go to the pictures, Frank. Of course I would. It’s just I don’t think I’d be very good company.’
‘I understand, of course I do.’ Frank’s eyes were full of sympathy for her. He knew how hard she worked, and to have this worry on top of all that must be dreadful. ‘If you want any cheering up, you come straight to me. You will, won’t you?’
‘Thank you, Frank.’ Sylvia’s face was full of gratitude.
‘Oh, by the way. I meant to say before, but if you are free over Christmas then my mam says you’re to come over and join the family for dinner,’ Frank told her. Dolly had been most insistent – she wouldn’t have Sylvia being lonely on her own in her billet while the extended Feeny clan sat down to the roast turkey. ‘Mam will pull out all the stops; it’ll be just like there was no war on. She’s been saving bits and bobs for months.’
‘That’s very kind of her.’ Sylvia looked embarrassed. ‘I’d love to say yes, you know I would, and I think the world of your mum. Well, all your family. But under the circumstances, I don’t know … I don’t want to say yes and then to let her down. She’ll already have a crowd to feed, won’t she? Like Kitty and all her family too?’ Sylvia hesitated and an odd look passed over her face which Frank couldn’t read. ‘And what if I have to hurry back to Mum and Dad? I don’t want to put her to any trouble.’
Frank laughed. ‘Believe me, it will be no trouble. She always cooks enough to feed an army. I’m the one who’ll be in trouble if I don’t invite you.’ His eyes danced. ‘Pop will get out the rum that my brotherin-law Jack brought back when he had leave a few weeks ago; all the neighbours will be over. Then Pop’ll get out his accordion and we’ll sing the place down.’
Sylvia sighed and leant back against the wall. ‘Frank, that sounds lovely, but I don’t know if I can come. Best if I say I won’t.’
Frank shook his head. ‘Let’s see what happens nearer the time,’ he suggested. ‘You shouldn’t decide now, not when you’re all upset. You can come over if you feel like it, we don’t need advance notice. You’ll be very welcome, you know that.’
Sylvia looked close to tears again but then recovered. ‘Aye, Frank. I do know that and I’m right grateful. You tell your mum that.’
Frank nodded soberly. ‘All right. Can’t say fairer than that. You let me know how things are going and what you feel up to doing. It’s no fun feeling miserable when everyone around you is having a party. But in the meantime shall we make a date to go for a quick drink, even if you don’t feel you can go to the flicks? A trip to the Phil?’
Sylvia smiled ruefully. ‘Better not, or at least not right now.’ She turned to go. ‘Thanks, Frank.’
Frank made his way back to his pile of agendas. Poor Sylvia, she was obviously preparing for the news that her father had died. If times had been different she could have gone home and helped make his final days, or weeks, or whatever it turned out to be, more comfortable, sharing the burden with her mother. If he’d been a different sort of man he might have felt she was deliberately being cool with him but he reassured himself he had no need for such suspicions. War made everything so much more difficult and complicated.
He knew Dolly wouldn’t see it as a rejection of her hospitality. As long as she knew Frank had invited the girl, she would be happy either way. Frank knew half of Empire Street would be crushed into the parlour and kitchen. He was looking forward to it in some ways; Danny would be back, or that was the word in his unit. He’d be bound to want a tot or two of rum. And if Danny came, then so would Kitty, singing carols in that beautiful voice of hers. Frank thought there might be some advantage after all if Sylvia didn’t come, and then admonished himself for even conceiving of such a thing. There was no denying it, though – few could sing a carol as movingly as Kitty Callaghan.