The Leaving Of Liverpool (43 page)

 

Having rented an apartment in Dover Street, off Piccadilly, Bobby went to see Skip Hillier, his predecessor, in a hospital in Suffolk at the request of Bill Flanaghan: ‘It’ll cheer the bastard up, let him know the paper’s thinking about him.’

He went by train - he hadn’t even tried to hire or buy a car; petrol was difficult to get in England and likely to get more difficult as the war progressed - and was dazzled by the soft green fields, the thatched cottages that had probably stood there for centuries, the great Tudor manor houses, and quite a few horse-drawn carts driven by men dressed like peasants. He was fully aware, however, that there were many parts of the country that weren’t so picturesque; cities like Birmingham, Liverpool, and Manchester, where Anne’s mother-in-law had come from, places that he would still like to see, however.

The only part of Skip Hillier that wasn’t bandaged was his head and the tips of his fingers; otherwise he bore a strong resemblance to an Egyptian mummy. His face was full of old bruises that had turned a nasty shade of yellow.

‘I’ve brought you some smokes,’ Bobby said after he’d introduced himself.

‘I can’t smoke, I can’t bend my arms,’ the man said sourly - understandably, ‘I could do with some liquor, though. I could drink through a straw if someone held it for me. Will you arrange to have some sent?’ He sniffed pathetically. ‘I’m dying here.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Bobby promised, a promise he had no intention of keeping. (According to Bill Flanaghan, the reason for the accident was almost certainly due to Hillier’s liking for booze. ‘He was probably sozzled to the roots of his teeth when he crashed the car,’ his editor had said. ‘Don’t give him anything to drink, whatever you do.’)

He lit a Marlboro and held it to the man’s still swollen lips. Hillier breathed in hungrily and blew the smoke into Bobby’s face, then began a tirade against England, the English, English food, rationing, the hard job he’d had finding cigarettes and decent booze, the fact his girlfriend had dropped him since he’d had the accident - she’d had a title of sorts, or her cousin had: ‘He was an honourable something or other; a gormless bastard with teeth like gravestones.’ The job was as boring as hell, the blackout stank, and he felt sorry for Bobby from the bottom of his heart. ‘In another few weeks, you’ll be bored out of your skin and wishing you were back in the good old US of A.’ He then began to cry for his mother. Bobby patted the bandages and assured him it wouldn’t be long before he was fit enough for the paper to fly him home. He helped him smoke another six Marlboros and went back to his flat in Dover Street, feeling that his duty had been done.

 

Boring! He couldn’t think of anything less boring than sitting in the press gallery in the House of Commons the following day listening to a motion of confidence in the Conservative government led by Prime Minister Chamberlain. The atmosphere was electric. When the debate was over and all the speeches had been made, thirty Conservatives followed the opposition into the ‘no’ lobby, meaning the motion was lost. Chamberlain was out and Churchill was in.

Bobby called the
Standard
from a phone in the lobby and dictated a report. He left the building feeling as if he’d just witnessed an event that would go down in history. After today, the course of the war could well change, affecting not just Europe, but the entire world.

In the meantime,
his
little part of Europe had been plunged into a darkness so dense that it looked impenetrable. He now had the task of negotiating the blackout so he could return to his apartment.

Two days later, Germany attacked Holland and Belgium and made for France. Bobby didn’t know a single soul who didn’t think it inevitable that France would fall, leaving just the narrow strip of water called the English Channel separating the enemy from the country he was quickly growing to love. That night, he packed his bag and left for Paris. It meant travelling by boat to Spain and passing back up through the French border.

Jeez! This was one helluva job.

 

The country had been at war for almost a year before the bombs came. At first, they fell harmlessly in fields on the outskirts of Liverpool, but in September they began to drop on houses, cinemas, hospitals and churches. People were being
killed
.

In quiet moments, Mollie had furious arguments inside her head with Harry Benedict. ‘So, this is what you wanted, is it, Harry?’ she would rant, often giving herself a headache. ‘Are you happy now? We could have come to an agreement with Hitler that he wouldn’t attack this country, then we wouldn’t have been at war, and people could still sleep peacefully in their beds. There’d have been no such thing as ration books, no blackout or shortages, no bloody bombs. Betty’s husband, Dave, and Mrs Oakley’s son would still be alive, along with hundreds of other people’s sons and husbands. ’ They had been merchant seamen who had all been lost when their ships were sunk.

Of course, she knew Harry was right and she was wrong. Hitler had to be stopped. He couldn’t be allowed to conquer country after country while Great Britain just sat back and watched it happen. That would have been shameful, but the arguments with Harry helped her cope with the fear and frustration she felt - that everyone felt - whenever the air raid warning siren sounded, followed by the rumble of planes overhead. Then the bombs would start to drop. The children would have to be roused from their beds and taken to the nearest shelter - ordinary brick buildings that she reckoned were no safer than the house they’d just left. The shelter would be crowded and they’d have to sit on the floor and listen to explosions all over Liverpool, everyone ducking when one sounded particularly close. Brodie insisted on bringing Dandelion, nursing him in her arms, and he would struggle to escape. He hated the noise. When the siren went he would hide under the table and bury his head in his paws. Mollie bought him a new collar and wrote his address on the inside just in case he ran away and got lost.

Some families slept all night in the shelter, arriving early so they could get the best spots, but Mollie knew that she would never manage to sleep on a hard, wooden bench or a concrete floor, no matter how thick the bedding, and neither would Irene or the children. When the pubs closed, the shelter was invaded by hordes of noisy drunks who urinated against the walls, making the place stink to high heaven.

The air raids weren’t all the population had to worry about. There was also the ever-present threat of Britain being invaded by the German Army, which was poised on the coast of France. Church bells had been banned and wouldn’t ring again until the war was over - or if German troops landed. Then the bells would ring to signal an invasion had begun.

Finn kept writing to insist she and the children come and live in Duneathly, actually accusing her of being irresponsible for not coming. Southern Ireland wasn’t involved in the war. ‘You’d be perfectly safe here. You’re putting your own and your children’s lives at risk,’ he wrote.

At the end of October, a month when there’d been a raid almost every night - and some during the day - Mollie decided it was time she took the children to Ireland. She didn’t intend to stay herself. Irene was approaching seventy and becoming increasingly fragile, both mentally and physically. She was terrified of the raids, clinging to Mollie’s arm with a vice-like grip until the all-clear went, positively refusing to move in with any of her three sons who lived in less vulnerable areas of Liverpool. She wanted to stay in her own home with Mollie.

Mollie had to keep reminding herself that Irene was Tom’s mother and Tom had been her favourite son. He would have wanted her to look after his beloved mam - she’d been telling herself that for the past ten years. But neither would he have wanted his children to be in danger when there was no need.

On 3 November, she and the children, laden with suitcases containing all their clothes and toys, caught the boat to Ireland, the train to Kildare, and the little bus that sputtered through the deserted country lanes to Duneathly. Nothing had changed, except that the trees were perhaps taller and the door of the cottage where Finn and Hazel had once lived had been painted dark blue, when it had used to be dark brown.

The bus stopped in the square outside O’Reilly’s pub and a whole crowd of young people came pouring out of the Doctor’s house, from the very tall to the very small, followed by Hazel, who was stouter than when Mollie had last seen her. The children stood in a row, the tallest at one end, the smallest at the other, while Hazel called out their names. ‘I’ll start with Patrick, at fifteen he’s the eldest, then Kieran and Eoin - you’ve met them before. Do you remember your Auntie Mollie, lads?’ The boys grinned and nodded vigorously. ‘Then there’s Sean, Kerianne, Noreen, Finola, and Bernadette. Bernadette’s the baby; she’s only three. Say hello to Aunt Mollie, everyone. She’s brought her children to stay with us until the cruel war across the water is over.’

‘Hello, Aunt Mollie,’ the children chorused. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’

Hazel grinned. ‘They’ve been practising that all day, and standing in a line. Finn had an appointment, but he’ll be along soon. Thaddy and Aidan are still at work.’

Mollie introduced her own children, who were immediately taken into the house, surrounded by their cousins. She and Hazel came behind with the luggage. ‘I wish you were staying for more than two days, Moll,’ Hazel said.

‘So do I.’ Mollie glanced around the square. Not a single window had been taped, there were no sandbags, no barrage balloons in the sky, no chance of a siren going off to warn of an imminent air raid. It was half past four and the light was beginning to fail, yet all the shops were brightly lit, whereas in Liverpool, the blackout would be in force. ‘It’s so peaceful here. But when I told Irene I’d be away for a little while, she went berserk. She needs me, Hazel, I can’t let her down.’ For all her faults, she genuinely loved her mother-in-law.

‘It hardly seems fair.’ They entered the house and deposited the suitcases in the hall.

‘It hardly seems unfair, either. Irene’s entitled to be looked after in her old age, and it won’t last for ever, nothing does.’ She followed her sister-in-law into the kitchen. Bubbles immediately came and rubbed himself against her legs. ‘This is a big improvement on the last time I was here,’ she gasped when she saw the electric stove in place of the horrible one she’d been apt to kick from time to time. ‘Finn wrote and told me Duneathly had electricity at last.’

Hazel gave the stove an affectionate pat. ‘Now, all we have to do is switch on the light when it’s dark. I was glad to see the back of those filthy oil lamps. At first, I kept switching the lights on and off to convince meself they actually worked.’

Mollie blinked at the sight of a tray of twenty-four eggs on the table:
two dozen
. Back home they were rationed to one egg each a week. There was also a bowl of fruit: oranges, apples, and a bunch of grapes. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen a grape, and oranges were almost as rare. The children would love it here.

‘Kerianne is the image of Annemarie,’ she remarked.

‘Isn’t she?’ Hazel agreed with a smile. ‘Quite a few people have remarked on that, the ones who can remember Annemarie. Time seems to stand still in Duneathly and they talk about her - and you - as if you’d only gone last week.’

‘Tom said once he’d like to live in Duneathly when he retired.’ He’d said it ten years ago in the bedroom upstairs where they’d slept.

‘Oh, Moll, that would have been lovely, having you and Tom living here all the time.’

‘But it wasn’t to be, was it?’ Mollie said sadly.

 

Not long afterwards, Finn came rushing in and gave his sister an enormous hug, followed shortly afterwards by Thaddy and Aidan, who both worked in Kildare. They were young men now. Thaddy was twenty and Aidan seventeen. They were pleased to see her and their nieces and nephews. Mollie felt sad again, wishing she and Annemarie hadn’t had to leave Duneathly and they could have all grown up together, but then she wouldn’t have met Tom. She might have married someone else and had quite different children.

Two days flashed by. Duneathly was buried in a wet mist that gave the village a ghostly quality, blurring the lights and making the buildings appear to be suspended in mid-air. Mollie bought flowers, big russet chrysanthemums, and walked alone through the mist to put them on Mammy’s grave, did a tour of the shops to say hello to the people she knew, and visited Nona in the post office to tell her Dandelion was doing just fine, except he didn’t like the air raids. Most importantly of all, she took the children to the convent where they would go to school and introduced them to the nuns. Megan, who was fourteen, had left school that summer and had been working in a florist’s shop on Scotland Road, but Mollie wanted her bright, argumentative daughter to have two more years’ education.

Sister Francis remembered the girls and Joe well. ‘I can tell this one’s a little monkey,’ she said, looking at Tommy’s tough, mischievous face. She suggested they start the following Monday to give them time to get used to Duneathly. She’d never been to Liverpool, but imagined it being very different.

‘Very different,’ Megan agreed in her grown-up way.

 

Next morning, it was time for Mollie to go, but she found it a wrench to tear herself away from a house so full of warmth and good humour - and twelve children. Finn and Hazel weren’t rich, but neither were they poor. They could afford to pay for help with the cleaning, the cooking, and the mountains of washing that had to be done. The food was plain but nourishing.

The other children had gone to school, except for Finola and Bernadette who were too young. Mollie looked at the mournful faces of her own four and told them how much she would miss them. ‘But it won’t be for long,’ she added. ‘I’ll be back at Christmas, though it will only be for a few days.’ Somehow or other she would get away, even if it meant bringing Irene with her.