By the Waters of Liverpool (19 page)

Five weeks seemed an interminable time. When the thirty-five days were over and there was no telephone call I was nearly distracted. Harry had told me the name of his ship, and certainly no one had come into the office to claim a pension because the ship was lost – in those days of official silence about the total number of our losses, this was the most likely way I would have known if it had gone to the bottom.

On the forty-first day I could bear it no longer, and with elaborate casualness I asked Norm if he had heard anything.

Norm dusted one of his records, and said that almost certainly if Harry’s pal from the same ship was missing, he would have heard about it – so the ship was still afloat. If it had docked, Jack’s wife
nagged him so much to be taken dancing that they would have been in the room that minute. He grinned knowingly at me. ‘He’s a proper nice lad, isn’t he? I knew you’d like him.’

I nodded and smiled – and sighed.

‘Don’t you worry, luv. He’ll be back like a homing pigeon. He needs a girl like you.’

But I did worry. Something wonderful, something precious, had plunged light-heartedly into my miserable existence, and I could not bear to lose it. I knew of so many little ships limping home damaged, or lost at sea. I realised to the full what many of the stony-faced women who came to our office for advice were going through.

Fiona, secretive and sour-faced, announced to Mother’s disappointment that she did not like her General and had dropped him. Fiona had more sense than she was ever given credit for.

She stayed at home one night and set my hair for me. I was tempted to tell her about Harry. Yet, as she chatted on about films she had seen and dances she had been to, I thought better of it. Surrogate Mums listen; they are not expected to have anything to confide. Secretly, I dreaded ever having to introduce a man friend to Fiona. Her charm, her sex appeal, were overwhelming, like Mother’s in her younger days. I would not stand
a dog’s chance against such competition.

Mother was fretting over a Government demand that parents contribute towards the billeting allowance made to the hosts of evacuees. The sum suggested was six shillings for each child, a little over half the allowance. Both parents grumbled that they could not afford it, though they could now afford to smoke, to drink, to attend the cinema or concerts. They had grown used to having money in their pockets, as I had with my little allowance.

I dreaded being returned to my earlier impossible penury, and I again advertised for a shorthand student, still without result. I had continued to apply for jobs advertised in the
Liverpool Echo.

Unemployment was still very high, and employers could obtain stenographers who had matriculated. Few of the men who interviewed me bothered to examine the sheaf of certificates which I had received for my night-school endeavours. I was also still very poorly dressed in comparison with other girls who worked in offices, though I had now taught myself to make and alter underwear and dresses quite successfully. Not that I had the use of what I made for very long. All too frequently painstakingly hand-stitched petticoats and renovated dresses were borrowed by plumper Mother
and Fiona, to be left dirty and with seams burst. I raged impotently and tried hiding my single change of underwear under the mattress. To no avail. I was a rotten, greedy bad-tempered daughter and sister who did not trust her relations. My despair about Harry did not improve my patience.

Another worry was that Mother began to justify avoiding paying the billeting charges for the children, by saying her darlings must be homesick and want to return. It certainly would have been cheaper to have them at home, because the price of food was still low – and we did not eat well anyway.

I brought a storm of recrimination down on my head by reminding Mother that, though Liverpool had not yet been bombed, there was no guarantee that it would not be soon. I wondered bitterly how much real affection she had for her children; she did not seem to really miss them very much. This idea strengthened my mistrust of Mother, despite her keeping her word to me regarding her share of my salary. I found myself even less able to talk to her, except for common courtesies.

After forty-two days I gave up. Either Harry’s ship was lost, or he had abandoned the clumsy hobbledehoy he had picked up. Probably the latter, I told myself acidly. Moodily I slammed files on to shelves,
typed letters and was sent out to visit invalids or the elderly, who were always remarkably sweet to me.

‘Miss Forrester,’ called my colleague, holding up our solitary telephone. ‘A call for you. Make it quick, because I have a lot of phoning to do.’

I blenched with the surprise of it, and almost snatched the instrument from her, ‘Hello,’ I murmured.

‘Little Miss Forrester?’

‘Yes.’

‘Harry here. Look, sweetheart. We’ve just berthed. It’s going to be a quick turnaround this time. Could you meet me at Mrs Ambleton’s place – you know, the little café we went to – tonight, seven-thirty, eh?’

‘Yes,’ I breathed. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’

‘Wait for me if I’m late?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there. ‘Bye.’ The phone clicked as he rang off.

In a dream I handed the receiver back to my intrigued colleague, who was smiling questioningly at me. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and then added, ‘I’ll check how the waiting room is doing.’ And I fled, down to the unused basement of the house which was our office, pushed open a creaking door into an old kitchen wreathed with cobwebs, shut myself in, and burst into tears with relief.

While my colleague was out visiting a difficult case, I made a fast call to Fiona and asked her to tell Mother I would not be in for tea. ‘We’ll be sending out for some sandwiches to eat in the office while we work,’ I lied merrily. Fiona had obviously been expecting a call from someone else, because her lively ‘Hello’ turned to ‘What, you?’ when she heard my voice. She promised, however, to relay the message.

‘Where’s Harry?’ asked Ma through a cloud of steam from her kettles.

‘He’s coming,’ I puffed, as I took off my darned woollen gloves and loosened my coat.

‘Like a coop o’ tea while you’re waiting, luv?’

‘Yes, please.’ My eyes were on the narrow door. I was dreadfully hungry, but I was so happy, so wonderfully, wonderfully happy.

Eight o’clock came and went, and slowly my hopes shrivelled. Three men went out, and a man and a girl came in and sat down to a meal. The smell of sausages was tantalising.

He came in slowly and, for a moment, until his crumpled face broke into a lively grin, I hardly recognised him. He was dressed in beige twill cotton trousers, a blue shirt open at the neck, worn under an open black leather jacket. His face was almost without colour, except for red rings round eyes so weary I wondered how they stayed open. In one hand he carried a flat white paper bag. He came towards me eagerly, whipping off a navy blue peaked sailor’s cap, as he approached.

‘Eh, I’m that glad to see you,’ he said, putting his arm round my shoulder for a second, before turning to swing into the chair opposite me. ‘Thought I’d never get loose. How are you, luv?’

I was all curled up inside with pure joy. I wanted to hug him, and I am sure my face glowed, as I said, ‘Oh, I’m all right. What about you?’

He looked exhausted, as if he should have been in bed, instead of meeting a stray girl in a café; and my happiness flowed out in compassion for him.

He grinned, and said, ‘Well, I’m starving. Have you had your tea?’

I nodded negatively while my eyes dwelt on him, and he called to the beaming, fat lady, ‘What have you got, Nell?’

She offered steak and kidney pie or sausage and mash, with steamed treacle pudding to follow.

Over a huge helping of pie, I repeated my question, ‘What about you? You look worn out.’

‘Been chasing all over the bloody Atlantic, if you’ll pardon the language.’ He began to eat quickly, as if he were indeed starving. ‘Convoy got scattered – it was slow as a company of snails, anyway. We made it home on our own – we’re fast compared to most freighters.’

A shiver of dread went through me. I refrained, however, from asking any more questions. Time enough to talk when he had eaten his dinner and unwound a little.

Between mouthfuls, I kept glancing up at him, amazed that he had thought of me first when he came ashore, that he really was sitting opposite me.

He caught my questing eye. ‘Never stopped thinkin’ about you,’ he said, with a piece of kidney balanced neatly on his fork.

The telltale flush flooded my face. I wanted to say, ‘I never stopped thinking of you.’ But I was too proud to commit myself. This kind, comfortable
man might soon get fed up with my long silences and my gauche ways.

‘I’m so glad you got back safe,’ I finally managed, a bit primly.

He leaned back and laughed. ‘Wasn’t too bad, luv. I was thankful to see Blackpool Tower, though, I can tell you.’

I thought about the sea mines being laid by both combatants, of surface raiders, of the dreaded U-boats, as yet only flexing their muscles. Suddenly I felt the icy Atlantic water with its surface mist drifting over struggling men. I felt the choking water in my own lungs, and I asked impulsively in a strangled voice, ‘Do you have to do another voyage? Can’t you stay ashore – do something else?’

His eyes were intent on me, speculative. ‘No, little Helen. We all have to go back. Even if I decided to swallow the anchor – and I might – I can’t do it until this little ruckus is over. What about some pudding?’

I tried to console myself with a piece of steamed pudding big enough for a hungry lorry driver.

Steamed pudding did not help much. I was in love. I knew it. In love with someone I was seeing for only the third time. It was ridiculous, absurd, stupid, certainly unwise. Then I told myself piteously that
there was no harm in loving, as long as one did not expect anything in return. As always with the children, perhaps I could give him love without consideration of what I would get out of it. Physical love I would have to be careful about, but that was only part of it – it was the commitment which mattered.

I need not have worried about being left with an infant to care for. I was dealing with a most unusual man, who, however he felt, was very much in command of himself. It was almost disappointing not to have to fight for one’s honour.

We spent the rest of the evening riding backwards and forwards on the ferry boat, crossing and recrossing the Mersey river. Tucked in the curve of Harry’s arm, it was a good place to talk and get to know each other.

On the first trip, he put the white paper bag on my lap. ‘I brought you a present,’ he announced.

Surprised, I picked up the bag hesitantly. ‘May I look?’

He nodded expectantly, and I opened the bag, touched material and carefully drew it out.

It was a dress, and I did not need to totally unfold it to know that it was a very good dress. The colour in the poor light was either tan or dark red. It had tiny pin tucks running the length of the bodice on
which was pinned a discreet leather flower touched with gold. It had long sleeves, and could, I guessed, be worn for any occasion.

‘Harry!’ I exclaimed, blushing. ‘It is too – too much – you should not have done it – but, oh, it’s beautiful. Thank you very much.’

His arm tightened round me. ‘Didn’t know your vital statistics, but I found a girl the same size, I think. Like it?’

I shook it out and admired its fine leather belt, its plain skirt, and turned starry eyes up to him. ‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘I’ve never had anything so beautiful before.’

Our faces were very close together and I thought he would kiss me, but he didn’t. Just hugged me tighter.

‘Thought you’d like it. Went down to the garment district in Manhattan and looked around. My pal often buys things there for his wife. They’ve got everything there – stuff that goes to the good shops.’

I was overwhelmed. ‘You shouldn’t spend so much on me,’ I protested.

‘Humph. And who else would I be spending it on? That’s the trouble with me. Never had anybody I wanted to buy presents for, for years.’

I laughed, and carefully folded up the dress
and put it back into the bag. How I was going to explain it to Mother and Fiona or stop them from borrowing it, I had no idea. I could not explain my happy acceptance of it even to myself – and from a Roman Catholic, to boot.

We sat talking together, warm and happy, two odd, extremely lonely people, neither of whom had had very much out of life except work, and yet matched like a pair of gloves. I wondered what had happened to my passionate belief in my church, feelings strong enough to make me refuse confirmation from a church which demanded that its members go to Confession.

This remembrance made me turn to him and snuggling close, say, ‘Harry, I have to tell you – you know, I’m a Protestant.’

He chuckled unexpectedly. ‘I thought so. Do you feel very strongly about it?’

‘I’m not sure. I used to feel that no other religion was a true one. But the more I see the more I realise that nobody can really say that.’

‘Well, not to worry, my dear. Times they are a-changing. We’ll talk about it some more another day.’

Nevertheless, we continued to talk about beliefs, though not very deeply, and then about ships’ engines – very deeply and far out of my depth.
Finally, we came round to the war, which was always at the back of everybody’s mind, and in this regard Harry said, ‘Y’ know, I’ve never been out of work since I went to sea – and I’ve saved. Since the war began I’ve been getting danger money – and it is going to add up. So I was thinkin’ of buying a house – I know it sounds daft – but I’m fed up with not having a place of my own. I want a decent place and I’ve been dickering with a chap out at Allerton who’s got a few new houses for sale. Would you like to come sometime and look at one with me?’

I was a bit staggered, and my mind leaped ahead with all kinds of wild hopes. Remember, I told myself, don’t expect anything. ‘I’d love to,’ I assured him. ‘It must be miserable not having a home.’

‘It is,’ he said, looking at me positively wickedly.

To be able to buy a house – to have the money to do it – seemed to me an almost impossible ambition. Presumably, however, he knew what he was doing.

‘When do you sail again?’

‘Couple of days,’ he replied soberly. ‘Real quick turnaround. Never know what they’ll do next. They’re even shifting crews around to other companies, as if they were ruddy pawns.’

‘It’s happening ashore, too,’ I said.

He eased himself around, in order to look at me directly. ‘Like to come dancing tomorrow night? I can get loose for a few hours – they owe me plenty. We can go to the Rialto, if you like.’

‘Let’s go to Norm’s,’ I suggested. The Rialto seemed suddenly a cold and alien place.

‘Okay, and I’ll try to think of a nice place for coffee afterwards.’

He said he would get the overhead railway back to the dock, and saw me on to the tram with only a gentle peck on my cheek. It was very disappointing. He told me later that he was so afraid of scaring me off and yet his time ashore was so little.

I did not have to account for the new dress, because everyone was in bed when I arrived home, and the next morning they all rushed off to work without remembering that they had not seen me the previous evening. While Fiona was washing herself in the kitchen, I hid the pretty garment on a hanger under my old brown winter coat, which was by this time too decrepit even to be pawned and was sometimes used as a bed cover.

I tore home that evening and shared tea with Mother and Fiona, because Father was working late. It was unusual for me to lie, but that night I lied like the proverbial trooper. I said I had bought a new dress from a well-known second-hand shop
which dealt in high class clothing, and was going to press it to wear to the dance club that evening.

When Fiona saw it, her eyes widened. ‘You lucky thing!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you think they’d have anything to fit me?’

‘Probably they would,’ I responded noncommittally, as I carefully ran the flat iron over it on the kitchen table. To press such a garment without an ironing board was a skill learned from patient experiment.

It was a tan shade which suited my sallow complexion, and it fitted very well, too well, I hoped, for either Fiona or Mother to get into it. ‘It
is
a nice dress, more like an American fashion than an English one,’ Mother said quite innocently, leaving me tight-lipped and silent. ‘You should go and have a look, Fiona, and see what they have.’

I could imagine what Mother would say if she knew a man had given it to me, and particularly if later that man dropped me. I could not face such humiliation. The less said the less humiliation there would be.

He was there, waiting for me, joking with Norm and Doris, all dressed up in creased navy blue. He whistled when he saw me. I had not been able to see myself in the dress, because we lacked a long mirror.

Doris said, ‘Golly, you look nice, Helen!’

I looked across at myself in the long ballroom mirror and knew that I looked good. And I felt good, more sure of myself. The girl in the mirror was much as I had imagined myself growing up to be, if disaster had not struck the family first. I had agonised over having to wear black shoes and carry a black handbag with a tan dress, but they were an elegant contrast.

We danced and we danced until the end of the evening, oblivious of anyone else. He looked less weary and I was so happy.

Afterwards, five or six of us stood in the misty moonlight outside the front door, chatting casually. I was carrying my walking shoes, meaning to go home in my dancing shoes. Harry offered to put the shoes in his raincoat pocket – there was no doubt that I was going to be escorted home this time.

One of the girls laughed, looking at my satin-clad feet. ‘Goin’ to dance home?’ she asked.

‘I could dance all night,’ I replied lightly, glancing up at Harry. ‘I could dance the length of the avenue.’

‘Get away, now.’

I laughed. ‘Bet I could.’

‘Bet
we
could,’ said Harry, joining in the laughter, and he put his arm round me and, whistling a slow
waltz, he turned me away from the cheerful little group, and we danced away down the pavement.

I was shyly quiet in the warmth of his arms. The other young people called, ‘Tara, well. Enjoy yourselves,’ and their voices faded as they walked in the other direction.

‘I’d like you to meet some of my friends,’ Harry remarked, as we danced to our own peculiar music down the empty avenue. ‘I’ve a few old friends, mostly married, round Bootle.’

‘I’d like that very much,’ I said.

‘We’ll do it next time I’m home. They’re more like your kind of people than that bunch are.’

I was no longer sure what my kind of people were, so I did not answer. But I felt that any friend of his was likely to be pleasant to know.

Only the sound of our shifting feet broke the silence. I was afloat in happiness. There was no beginning to life and no end, only the perfect now in the arms of a semi-stranger who meant everything to me, a stranger who was already planning to introduce me to his friends, take me into his life.

Halfway down the avenue he stopped, and holding me tightly, lifted my face and kissed me, a kind of kiss I had never imagined and I never wanted to stop. But he did stop it with a quick sigh, and a resumption of our slow progress, while all kinds
of wild and wonderful feelings raced through my slender body.

‘Love, I know this is too quick. But I want to marry you, if you’ll have me – soon as I can get a house ready to put you in safe and sound.’ He ignored my gasp, and went on, ‘I’m askin’ you now, because I’m away so much that I could lose you to somebody else.’