A Liverpool Lass (12 page)

And when they got back to the Culler, Lilac went on chattering about the pantomime and about her lovely evening and Nellie sat and knitted and waited for the child to go to bed and although she supervised the nine-year-olds, as she always did, anyone could have seen that her heart wasn’t in it, not tonight.

But Lilac didn’t seem to notice Nellie’s abstraction nor the fact that her eyes would keep filling with tears. Oh dear God, Nellie was praying, don’t let anything bad have happened to Davy because I do love him and ... oh God, I do need him! Keep him safe, don’t let anything bad have happened!

And after Lilac had gone to bed Nellie sneaked quietly out of the house, though she had no right since her time off ended at ten o’clock. But she could not have gone meekly to bed, not without at least making a push to find out where Davy – and the
Milligan
– was.

It was a cold night again, colder if anything than the previous one. Nellie wore her thick cloak and muffled her head in a big woolly scarf and walked all the way down to Canning Dock, and there she asked everyone who came through the gates whether they had seen HMS
Milligan
or knew what had happened to her.

‘Late, is she?’ a portly, grizzled sailor said, scratching his head and tilting his cap to do so. ‘No wonder,
a deal of shipping there is, wantin’ to get into port, and others wantin’ to prevent ’em. What’s she carryin’?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nellie said faintly. ‘I think she just keeps the others safe ... in the convoys, that is.’

‘Oh, aye? A frigate, she’ll be. Well, she’ll be in soon, no doubt.’

Nellie waited down by the dock until she could see that the rush of men coming ashore had slackened to an odd one or two and then she walked back to the Culler. She realised, belatedly, that as a sailor’s young woman she had no rights, would not even be informed if Davy had been killed in action. That news would go to his old parents, on Anglesey, who might have heard Davy speak of her but probably did not know her name, let alone her address.

Oh God, what should she do? Tomorrow I’ll go to Coronation Court whilst the children are in church, she decided, and talk to Hal and Bertie. I can’t burden Charlie with any more worries, he’s got enough of his own. Bessie was thriving and the children were well but Charlie was talking about joining the Army and everyone was against it. Nellie thought life was hard enough without having to leave your wife and baby, but Charlie felt it was his chance to see the world and a bit of life; she only hoped that the matter would be resolved by the war ending, though it did not seem as likely now as it had earlier in the year.

She let herself in through the kitchen window, took off her shoes and rubbed some life back into her frozen feet with a rough towel, then tiptoed up the stairs. She was tempted to peep at Lilac, but remembering the child’s indifference to Davy’s absence earlier she hardened her heart. She went straight to her own room and lay down on the bed, but not to sleep. She was going over in her mind what she must do. And before
the bell had rung to rouse the children, before the sky had done more than lighten a little in the east, she was up and dressed, a small bag packed.

Nellie went down the stairs and out of the back door, clutching the folds of her old brown cloak around her. She had her savings in her bag and a new, chilly determination filled her. She would go to Davy’s parents and beg them to tell her what had happened to their son, explain that he and she were courting, intended to get married. Davy had talked a lot about his home, perhaps more than he knew, so she should have no difficulty in finding it. He talked about Amlwch, the nearest big town, and had said there was a railway station there. But perhaps the sailor was right and Davy’s ship had merely been delayed, in which case no harm would have been done, for she was sure Davy would have taken her home to meet his parents before they married. And if Davy’s ship was missing, if he had been killed, then at least she would know, at least she would no longer have to suffer this agony of uncertainty.

Waiting for the ferry down at the pierhead, for the train which would take her to Amlwch left from Rock Ferry on the other side of the water, Nellie thought, for the first time, of Lilac. Would the child worry? Would she fret for Nellie? Well, if she does it will be the first time, Nellie realised sadly. She ran away and I was worried sick, now I’m running away – perhaps a little worry will do Lilac good, make her a nicer, more thoughtful person.

The ferry drew up alongside, jarring against the wooden landing stage, and Nellie watched whilst the gangplank clattered down and people began to surge forward. She joined them when most were already aboard and was impressed despite herself by the
casual, matter of fact attitude of other travellers. Mostly, she supposed, they were going to work in Cammell Laird’s or some other shipyard, but they were well used to the short voyage and stood talking in small groups or hurried downstairs to the saloons, leaving Nellie to lean over the rail and watch the shore come gradually nearer.

Once she disembarked she only had to walk up Bedford Road and there she was at Rock Ferry Station. Nellie bought a ticket and got on board the waiting train, settling herself in a third class carriage, taking a corner seat so that she could watch the scenery and try to take her mind off her worries. There was a tinted photograph above the seat opposite and whilst she waited for the train to move, Nellie examined it.

It showed a quaint fishing village, a beach, a rocky curve of bay, and the legend beneath read:
Moelfre fishing village, Anglesey
. Nellie stared and stared at it. One of those houses might be Davy’s house, she thought. And I’m going right there, to Moelfre fishing village! Oh, this has to be a good sign, a sign that everything will be all right. Oh please, God, I’ve never asked you for much, not for meself, just for Lilac now and again. But please God, let Davy be all right, let me find him safe at home when I get to that little fishing village! Oh God, I love Lilac ever so, but I think I love Davy in a different way, so take care of ’em both and let me find Davy safe when I reach Moelfre!

It was a long journey, but Nellie had started early. Soon after two o’clock she found herself on the station platform at Amlwch, looking hopefully round her. It was several miles to Moelfre and she knew it would be best to arrive at the village whilst it was still light, but
unless there was a convenient bus she would have to either spend some of her small store of money on a cab or walk.

A porter came across the platform and stopped by her, seeing her apparently waiting.

‘Can I ’elp you, Missie?’

‘Oh ... I want to get to Moelfre; is there a bus?’

The man shook his head.

‘Not now, Missie, last one’s gone. Goin’ to see a friend, are you? Well, seven miles it is to walk, too far with the evenings drawing in early, but Ap Owen and his missus come off your train, they go near the village, mebbe they’d give you a lift?’

‘Oh, would they? I’d be very grateful,’ Nellie said thankfully. ‘Would you ask Mr Ap Owen how much he would charge to take me?’

‘He won’t want your money,’ the porter said comfortably. ‘Glad to do a good turn he’ll be; besides, there’ll be stock in the cart, but I daresay you won’t mind that. Bide you here a moment, Missie, we’ll soon have you fixed up.’

He was as good as his word. Nellie and two sheep shared a farm cart whilst the farmer and his wife sat in front, chattering away nineteen-to-the-dozen in Welsh and occasionally breaking into awkward English for a moment to ask Nellie if she ‘wass all right now, and quite comfortable, then?’

Nellie looked curiously around her as the cart drew away from the station yard. The town square was a pleasant place with an ancient towered church to her left and a large public house, the Dinorben Arms, to her right. There were several roads leading off the square and she was amused and rather startled to see, in the middle of what looked like a main thoroughfare, a large outcrop of rock, and outside the hotel a goat
grazed and brown hens scuffled in the dust near the imposing station entrance. Nellie reflected that she had come a long way from Liverpool ... imagine an outcrop of rock on Scotland Road or a goat cropping the grass outside Lime Street Station!

At first, the road along which the cart rattled was lined with dwellings but very soon the houses petered out and they were in open country. The road became narrow and winding, climbing up hills and swooping into valleys, the meadows and fields quiet and the trees leafless in the December chill. They passed through a village of grey stone houses with gardens still bright despite the lateness of the year and then, on her right, Nellie saw a mountain rearing up into the sky, its sides pocked with evidence of some form of mining.

Seeing her gazing, the farmer’s wife gestured towards it.

‘Parys Mountain that is, where they used to dig out a deal of copper in times past. And them’s the ochre pools – not that you can see ’em too well from ’ere. You want to ask your friends to take you there, ’tis a strange sight.’

Nellie strained her eyes, but could only make out the glint of water far off.

‘And this is Pensarn; not far now,’ Mr Ap Owen remarked as the cart clattered into another small grey village. ‘Smithy’s open, I see. Just ’ave a word with Huw I will.’

He pulled the horse up and climbed laboriously down whilst the sheep shoved and bleated and Nellie stared over the side of the cart into the flaming heart of the smithy where a short, swarthy man in a filthy leather apron stopped whacking at a red-hot horseshoe for a moment to answer whatever query Mr Ap Owen had addressed to him. As he spoke the smith gestured
to the wall behind him and the farmer walked over and took down a workmanlike looking hayfork which hung there, then returned to the cart, climbed up, clicked to the horse and they were off once more, with Mrs Ap Owen balancing the fork across her ample lap. The couple began to talk in low voices, not that they needed to lower their tones, since they were speaking in Welsh.

Nellie, who had not until now considered that she was in a foreign country, suddenly wondered what on earth she would do if Davy’s mother and father spoke only Welsh; heavens, that really would be difficult! But it was unlikely; Davy spoke such good English that it was hard to realise it was not his first language.

‘Not far now,’ Mr Ap Owen said presently. ‘Drop you at the top of the village, we will; only a short walk down it is but not too good for a horse and cart, like.’

‘Thank goodness it’s still light,’ Nellie said presently as the farmer pulled his horse to a standstill. She struggled out of the cart, helped by the strong arm of Mrs Ap Owen. ‘Thank you very much indeed for your kindness, I’ll tell the Evans family how good you’ve been.’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ Mr Ap Owen said. ‘Off you go, my dear, you’ll be there in five minutes or less.’

Nellie, bag in hand, went briskly down the steeply sloping lane. She passed low stone cottages to left and right, turned a corner, crossed a humped grey bridge over a stream whose banks were lined with stooped, bare- branched trees, stopped for a moment to stare at the first waterfall she had seen, and then, turning back to the road, she saw on her left the fishermen’s cottages and the Crown and Anchor public house whilst on her right was the beach, a curve of grey, fawn and greenish stones with boats pulled up above the wintery silver of the sea.

Nellie stopped for a moment and stared, letting her gaze wander from the cottages crouched a few feet from the shingle up the slope of the cliff, to where she knew Davy’s home was. When she wrote to him she sent her letters to the post office which, he had told her, was just a front room in the public house, but since he had talked of walking down to the post office to fetch the letters, she knew that his home must be on the street she could see climbing the hill, and because he had also said his back garden overlooked the sea, it must be on the right side of the street and not on the left.

Nellie began to walk past the fishermen’s cottages, then past the public house, then up the road, Stryd Pen, where Davy must live. She felt excited, frightened and apprehensive all at once, looking searchingly at the terraced houses, which were more substantial than she had imagined. They were roofed with blue-grey slate and had deep porches and tiny windows set into the thickness of the walls and each one had a small front garden choked with the remnants of autumn.

The houses were not numbered but in any case Davy had never mentioned a number. Should she simply walk up to a door and knock, ask if this was the Evans’s home? And then, staring up at the next house, she saw something which banished all her doubts. A very old ship’s lantern hung to one side of the porch. Davy had showed her that lantern, told her it was a present for his father, who would enjoy lighting it up on dark winter nights when Davy was home, to guide him back to the cottage when he’d been down to the Crown and Anchor for a pint.

Nellie went over to the door, raised her knuckles to rap, and hesitated. It was awfully rude to just wish oneself on someone at this hour of the evening; would old Mrs Evans realise how desperately she needed
news of Davy? But a mother would understand, surely? Nellie knew that if someone was worried about Lilac, she would do everything in her power to reassure them.

And anyway she had little choice. Moelfre was far too small a village to find a boarding house, at least in mid-winter, willing to take her in. It would have to be as she had planned it – she would have to tell Mrs Evans who she was and explain her errand.

Without giving herself any more time to think about it, therefore, Nellie took hold of the knocker and brought it down decisively on the wood of the door.

The door opened inwards. Against the golden light which flooded out into the tiny square of front garden with its tangle of winter-bare shrubs Nellie could barely make out who had opened it save that it was a woman. And her first words were not much help since they were in Welsh, though Nellie could hear the interrogative tone and guessed that the woman was asking her what she wanted.