Christmas Wishes (4 page)

Joy settled back in her seat, refused the copy of the
Dandy
which Gillian was flourishing, and pressed her nose against the windowpane. Comics she could have in the city, but the beauty of the Devonshire countryside was a fleeting pleasure as the train hurried towards its next stop, and Joy settled down to watch.

Alex Lawrence awoke and, seeing sunshine through his bedroom window, thought it was that which made the day seem special. But as soon as he swung his legs out of bed he remembered. The twins were coming home at last, and how he wished he had his darling Bridget beside him, sharing his excitement at the thought of having their girls back with them again.

When everyone had known that war was imminent, he and Bridget had talked of the evacuation and decided, though only after much heart-searching, that the twins must go with the rest of their classmates. ‘Look what the Huns did in Spain during the civil war,’ Alex had reminded his wife. ‘Bombing the big cities despite promises to do no such thing. Do you think they won’t do the same here? Air power will be the thing this time, not trench warfare, and the children will be a good deal safer in the country than living cheek by jowl with one of the biggest ports in England. Biddy, my love, I know you hate the thought of sending them away, but it’s for their own good – no, for their lives – and we mustn’t let sentiment cloud our judgement.’

So Gillian and Joy, two little seven-year-olds, had been despatched in September ’39 to a small village in the heart of the Devonshire countryside, and with no children reliant upon her Bridget had looked round for war work, and found it. Alex was a fireman at the big fire station just up the road from their house, and as soon as it was known that women were being recruited to run the control room Bridget had volunteered and been taken on. Alex and the other firemen worked shifts – three days on, then three nights on, then three days off – and so did the staff in Control. Alex loved his work and talked about it constantly at home, so Bridget had had a head start over the other workers, and had soon become a valuable member of what Alex always referred to as his ‘family’.

When the May blitz had started, the firemen had been on call constantly. Alex and Bridget had barely met for the best part of a week, and Alex knew that Bridget had followed his Watch’s call-outs in constant dread, for firemen were at the very forefront of the action. Shamingly, he thought now, it had never occurred to him that it might be Bridget who died, yet it had happened. The raid had been over, though the whole city had seemed to be ablaze, but when Alex had come off duty and made his way home it was to find Fred Brown, the Station Commander, awaiting him. ‘Your missus was caught by the blast as she left Control,’ the man had said roughly. ‘They’ve taken her to the Stanley. You’ll want to see her … I’ll come wi’ you, old feller.’

‘Is she much hurt?’ Alex had asked, his heart starting to beat overtime and a coldness invading his limbs. He had known the question to be a foolish one. The officer wouldn’t have waited for him if it had been anything trivial. ‘I’ll come at once, of course. Is – is she …’

The man had taken his arm. ‘She’s gone, mate,’ he had said gently. ‘It was blast, so she looks peaceful; I reckon she didn’t know a thing.’

The days that followed had been a nightmare and Alex’s only consolation had been to work even harder than he had done before. He had arranged the funeral for a day when the twins could be present but when he had seen them, two tiny figures in makeshift black, clutching their teacher’s hand whilst tears poured down their pale cheeks, he had regretted insisting that they come home. He had not wanted them to return to the house, even for a night, with all its memories of their mother and had accepted gratefully when his sister Serena and her husband had offered to take them in; two very subdued, sad little girls, strangely polite but anxious, Alex had realised, to escape from the terrible gloom which had enveloped, it had seemed, the whole of Liverpool.

The girls had been in Devonshire ever since, and Alex hoped that it had been long enough for them to forget the misery which had surrounded that visit. He knew they were bound to miss their mother and had intended, at first, to sell their small house and move. On one of his rare visits to the farm he had put the suggestion forward, only to have it indignantly refuted by both girls. ‘We like to be near the fire station and we can scarcely remember the house anyway, so it won’t make us think of Mummy more than anywhere else would,’ Gillian had said. ‘Please, please don’t make us move again, Daddy. We know the neighbours and the shops and the park; why should we have to get used to somewhere different?’

So Alex had complied with their wishes, though he had had a bath and lavatory installed in the boxroom and repainted the kitchen and living room. He was glad now that he had not tried to move house, for every room in No. 77 held memories of Bridget and with the passage of time he had grown to value those memories, all happy ones. He was sure that the twins, too, if they remembered their lives before the war at all, would feel the same, for his Bridget had been a young woman, always smiling, with a great sense of humour.

Now, Alex left his bedroom and crossed to the bathroom, looking around him with pleasure, trying to see it as the twins would do. The bright blue linoleum matched the blue of the curtains at the window, and when he turned the tap and ignited the geyser hot water gushed into the hand basin. Alex grinned to himself; great to have hot water for shaving without the bother of boiling a kettle in the kitchen and carrying it upstairs. Of course the twins would not have to consider shaving, but at thirteen they probably considered themselves young ladies and would appreciate instant hot water.

Alex finished shaving and dressed in his best: a white shirt, a Fair Isle pullover and dark grey trousers. Then he headed for the stairs. In the kitchen he made himself toast and tea and ate and drank quickly, thinking about the day ahead.

Alex had been preparing for his daughters’ return for weeks and would be off to the station to meet their train in half an hour. Now he stood, eyeing the kitchen table with considerable pleasure. He had been determined to greet his children with a wonderful celebration tea, but he was no cook and certainly would not have dared to use precious ingredients in an attempt to bake something fancy himself; for the past few years he had lived on fish and chips and shop-bought bread, cakes and pies.

To make today special, however, he had been prepared to go to any lengths and had sought help from Cyril Clarke’s widow, a notable cook and a cheerful, energetic little woman. She had no children of her own, but she often babysat for young mothers who wanted a break from their offspring, and always asked after the twins when she and Alex met. Mrs Clarke lived in the end house of Alex’s terrace, and despite the fact that before Cyril’s death the two men had been good friends he did not know her very well, although he always stopped for a few words when he came across her, either going to the shops or exercising the fat, evil-tempered pug which she had taken on after its owner had been killed in the May blitz. The pug was named Dilly and though Mrs Clarke had never owned a dog before, and disliked pugs in general and Dilly in particular, she was too soft-hearted to let the animal be destroyed and now shared her home – and her rations – with the pop-eyed, irritable creature.

At work one day, a couple of weeks before the twins were due to come home, Alex had voiced his desire for some real home cooking so that his girls would have a grand homecoming and one of the young firemen had suggested that he should approach Mrs Clarke. ‘She’s a rare cook, and if you give her the flour and that she’ll make whatever you want,’ the young man had assured him. ‘She’s ever so nice, Mrs Clarke, honest to God she is. I reckon she’d be happy to help. My mam always calls her the good Samaritan because of the way she rescued that perishin’ pug. You go round there, tell her what you want, and ask her what you’re to buy.’

Alex had felt uneasy about asking such a big favour from someone he did not know well, but when he had seen a small box of chocolates in a shop window and found he had exactly the right number of coupons with which to purchase it, he decided fate was taking a hand. Armed with the chocolates he felt he could approach Mrs Clarke, so on his way back from the corner shop he had knocked on her front door.

It had only occurred to him that she might think the chocolates were a bribe when he heard footsteps approaching, and so embarrassed had he been by the realisation that she might be insulted by his offering that he had turned and walked away. He had been heading for his own home, hot-faced and feeling as guilty as though he really had been about to offer a bribe, when he had heard the patter of feet on the pavement behind him and felt a hand on his arm. He had swung round, meaning to explain that he had knocked on her door by mistake, but it had proved unnecessary. The little woman had broken into hasty speech. ‘Oh, Mr Lawrence, I’ve been trying to catch you, but you’re such a busy person! I remember how it was when my dear Cyril was alive, so I do understand that you’ve not much spare time, but a little bird told me …’ she had looked coyly up at him, her rosy face growing even rosier, ‘a little bird told me that your girls are coming home at the end of the week and I was wondering if you could do wi’ a bit of a hand, like?’

Alex had drawn a deep, ecstatic breath; he had dreaded having to ask a favour and here she was, offering him help as a matter of course. He had let out his breath in a long whistle of relief. ‘Phew! I meant to come and ask you if you might do some baking for me – I’d pay for it, of course – but it seemed a lot to ask, so I bought a box of chocolates, only after I’d knocked your door it occurred to me …’

‘It occurred to you that I might think you were trying to pay me in advance,’ Mrs Clarke had said, beaming up at him and taking the chocolates Alex was proffering. ‘Thanks very much, Mr Lawrence. I shall enjoy these, if Dilly don’t get at them first! I’ve a sweet tooth, so you needn’t have been afraid I’d turn hoity-toity on you and refuse to accept them. However, anyone round here will tell you I’d be happy to help and ask no payment. I enjoy cooking almost as much as I enjoy eating, so you’ll be doing me a favour, not vice versa. If you tell me what you want, I’ll get the ingredients and bring you a bill so’s you can see I’ve spent what I said I would. Now, will you come back to my house whilst we talk baking, or would you feel more at ease in your own place?’ She had twinkled up at him. ‘If you come to mine, I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can sample my work, ’cos just before I come out I’d taken a batch of almond tarts out of the oven and stood ’em on the windowsill to cool. Course, I didn’t use real ground almonds ’cos they’re difficult to find, but almond essence does nearly as well. Folk tell me my almond tarts are good, but you must judge for yourself.’

Alex had gone back to the end house and for the first time in ages someone else made him a cup of tea, buttered a scone for him and then presented him with a pretty floral plate upon which reposed two delicious-looking almond tarts. ‘This is prime,’ he had said to his hostess as, cup in hand, she had sat down opposite him. He had looked around the kitchen, which was a replica of his own so far as size went but bore all the signs of loving care which his own, he knew ruefully, lacked. ‘When Biddy was alive … but no use to look back. Only I suppose I’ve let things slide, what with the girls being away and myself more often at the fire station than not …’

Mrs Clarke had nodded sympathetically. ‘I remember how it was when the war started. I worked in a factory making munitions, only after Cyril died I became allergic to some of the materials used in the factory and had to find another job, so I became a fire watcher. All I had to do was take up my position on one of the highest buildings around and report any fire whose location I could identify – I had this sort o’ telephone thing, which you wound up by hand. So I did help in my own small way. And on the days when I wasn’t fire watching I worked in the WI canteen, or went out on one of the vans, so’s the fellers trying to dig out folks who had been buried in the rubble could have tea and a wad, as they used to say.’ She had chuckled suddenly. ‘Trust me to get off the subject and go rambling on! Where were we? What I was tryin’ to say was that firemen don’t have much of what you might call spare time. Why, even when you aren’t on Watch you could be called in. So don’t worry, Mr Lawrence, I’ll be happy to do the shoppin’ for you. Which shop are you registered with? Only I think I’ll have to have your written permission to buy the stuff with your coupons.’ She had leaned forward. ‘What did you think of those almond tarts?’

For answer, Alex had held out the plate, clean as a whistle. ‘I’ve not tasted anything so good for years,’ he had said frankly. He had then bent down to pat the dog, who was investigating the quarry tiles around his boots, and had yelped sharply when Dilly had snarled and snapped at his fingers.

‘Sorry, but it doesn’t do to get between Dilly and her grub. She thought you were goin’ to tidy away the crumbs before she’d had a chance to gobble ’em up,’ Mrs Clarke had explained. ‘Well? I take it you’d like me to do you a bake? I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but like many another I keep half a dozen hens in me back yard, so eggs won’t be a problem. And I can lay me hands on a grosh of apples and plums at this time o’ year. So what d’you say? Little individual fruit pies are nice …’

The discussion had become animated, and by the time Alex left a menu had been drawn up which had made his mouth water. He had asked what he could do to help and after eyeing him shrewdly for a moment, Mrs Clarke had suggested that he might buy some flowers with which to decorate both the kitchen table and the twins’ bedroom. ‘I expect you have a pretty tablecloth and a set of napkins,’ she had said. ‘When I was a girl, every one of us had what we called a bottom drawer where we stored away stuff for when we were wed. Your dear wife was clever with her needle; I remember her showin’ me the most beautiful tablecloth, embroidered all round the edge with snowdrops, crocuses, primroses – oh, all the spring flowers you can think of. I’d put money on you having it still.’