The Leaving Of Liverpool (46 page)

Both women cried when they threw their arms around each other. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you, Moll,’ Agatha sobbed. ‘I should’ve gone to Turnpike Street more often, not always waited for you to come here.’

‘And I should have come here more often and not waited for you to come to ours.’

Phil rolled his eyes and said they were making him feel embarrassed, so Mollie threw her arms around the man who’d been Tom’s friend and kissed him on both cheeks in order to embarrass him even further, whereupon Phil announced he was going to the pub and hoped they’d both calmed down a bit by the time he came back.

Donnie and Pamela were in bed. Mollie said she’d brought them presents and looked forward to seeing them in the morning. Agatha had kept her a dinner in the oven and after she’d eaten they settled down to a chat about old times and new times. They recalled their wedding days, the films they’d been to see, Mollie’s time in Roberta’s hat shop and Agatha’s in the chemist’s.

‘I loved working in Roberta’s,’ Mollie reminisced, ‘but not as much as I loved the Rotunda.’

‘It burnt down during the May blitz. Did you know?’

‘Gladys told me.’

‘It was terrible, Moll, the blitz.’ Agatha shuddered. ‘After the first awful night, Phil took me and the kids to stay with his auntie in Ormskirk. We came back each day to see if the house was all right, and do you know, there’d always be a bottle of milk standing on the step outside. No one stopped working; the milkman and the postman still came, the
Echo
was published, even though the offices were bombed. The people were tremendous, so brave. I was really proud to be a scouser then.’

‘I’m almost sorry I missed it,’ Mollie murmured.

‘Oh, you were best out of it, particularly with the children. It’s them you worry about far more than yourself. It was then I decided I had to do my bit and went to work for Garston Electrics. By the way,’ she continued, ‘I told Mrs Havelock about you - she’s the personnel officer - and she’d like you to come for interview the day after tomorrow. I thought you’d like a day to settle in before you thought about work.’

‘Thanks, Agatha.’ Tomorrow, she’d see about getting a new ration book then have a wander around the shops and look for a frock for Lily’s son’s wedding. Gerald was getting married the Saturday after next. ‘Do you finish early enough to be here for Donnie and Pamela when they come home from school?’

Agatha shook her head. ‘Our Blanche’s two go to the same school, so she picks them up and gives them their tea and I collect them on the way home from work.’ She grinned. ‘In return, I take Blanche’s kids all day Sunday while she works as an auxiliary nurse in Smithdown Road hospital. Our Cathy, Dora, and Ellen are all working at something or other and helping each other out, fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where you’re going to sleep. You know it’s in the parlour, don’t you?’

‘Yes, you said in your letter, but I hope it’s not inconveniencing you in any way.’

‘Not a bit,’ Agatha said easily. ‘It’s only used on high days and holidays.’ She flung open the door. ‘I’ve folded the table and pushed it against the wall and Phil’s put two of the chairs in the attic. The sideboard’s been emptied so you can use it to keep your clothes in and hang the bigger things behind the door.’

‘You didn’t buy a new bed, did you?’ The single bed had a pretty patchwork cover.

‘No, I borrowed it and the bedding from Mam - she’s dying to see you, by the way.’

‘I’m looking forward to seeing her - and your sisters.’ All of a sudden, Mollie felt very emotional, remembering the time when she’d first met the Brophys, only days after she’d lost Annemarie and weeks before she’d found Tom.

Mrs Havelock, a jovial-looking woman of about fifty with a bountiful mop of grey curly hair and enormous breasts, greeted Mollie with a broad smile and waved the application form she’d just completed in her face. ‘You’re exactly the sort of person we’re desperate for, Mrs Ryan. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.’

‘Thank you.’ Mollie sat on the chair on the other side of the desk.

Mrs Havelock rested her breasts on the desk and folded her arms in front of them. She smiled again. ‘We’re badly in need of another pair of hands in wages and you sound perfect; you’ve worked in a bank and the Rotunda box office - I used to go there regularly when I was young - so you’re used to handling money and would be perfect for the vacancy. The wages are four pounds, ten shillings and sixpence, and there’s always overtime available if you want it.’

Mollie felt intensely disappointed. ‘But I was hoping to work on the production line with Agatha Fraser, the woman who told you about me.’ There was something faintly romantic about working on a production line during a war and she’d been looking forward to writing and telling the children about it. There was nothing remotely romantic about making up wages.

‘But, Mrs Ryan,’ Mrs Havelock protested mildly - she was still smiling and knew darned well she was about to get her own way - ‘we
need
someone like you in wages, someone who’s good with figures. You’d be doing us an immense favour if you took the job. On Fridays, pay day, I have to go in the office myself and help because the staff are so overwhelmed, which means I’m neglecting my own work in the process.’ She leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, ‘Don’t tell Mrs Fraser I said this, but you only need half a brain to work on the production line - and the money isn’t quite so good.’

Mollie burst out laughing. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll take the job, but I have to know something first: can I have Christmas week off? I promised faithfully I’d go to Ireland and see my children.’

‘You can indeed,’ Mrs Havelock said graciously. She held out her hand. ‘Welcome aboard, Mrs Ryan. Now, if you’d like to come with me, I’ll ask Mr Parrish to show you the ropes.’

‘You want me to start straight away?’ She’d intended going back to Bon Marché to buy a frock she’d seen the day before, but supposed it was more sensible to start earning money rather than spending it.

Mrs Havelock didn’t answer, just grasped her arm and almost dragged her along to the wages office, as if worried she might escape.

 

Mr Parrish was a dear little man, almost seventy, with soft silver hair and a pink, babyish face. He had retired from his job at an accountant’s five years ago and had been pleased to discover his services were needed again when the war started and there were vacancies galore because so many men and women had joined the Services.

‘I felt lonely at home,’ he told Mollie, his blue eyes watering slightly. ‘My wife, Mary, died in her fifties and we hadn’t been blessed with children. It had been our intention to retire to the Scilly Isles - have you ever been there, Mrs Ryan?’

Mollie confessed she hadn’t. Not only that, she didn’t even know where they were.

‘A short boat ride from Land’s End,’ he told her. ‘We were going to buy a cottage there, but Mary’s medical care cost so much I can’t afford to do it now.’

He was a thorough, conscientious worker, but agonizingly slow, writing with such neat precision that the words almost looked as if they’d been printed on a machine.

There were two other people in the office: Esme Fitzgerald, who’d only been married a fortnight when her soldier husband had been despatched to Hong Kong; and Dolly Birch, who was fifteen and spent a lot of time examining her pretty face in the little mirror she kept in her bag. Dolly went on the odd message, collected the time cards that the workers used to clock in, fetched tea from the trolley that came round twice a day, and disappeared for long periods to chat to her various friends around the factory.

On Friday, Mollie accompanied Mr Parrish to the local Lloyd’s bank and they were waiting outside when the doors opened. Apparently, the women took turns to go with him, whether as protection, or to make sure he didn’t run away with the money, Mollie wasn’t sure. He collected well over a thousand pounds in notes and a bagful of silver and coins to make up the wages. Garston Electrics had 227 employees.

The rest of the day was spent stuffing little brown envelopes with money and a wage slip, and writing the name of the recipient on the outside. At around half past four, Mr Parrish, Esme, and Mollie sailed forth, each with a tray of envelopes, and delivered them individually to each worker in different sections of the factory. A few complained they hadn’t been paid enough, that they’d worked forty-six hours and had only been paid for forty-four, for instance. Mollie had been advised to tell them to come to the office on Monday and it would be sorted out.

Although she hadn’t expected to, she quite enjoyed her job. She loved Mr Parrish, Esme quickly became a friend, and it was impossible not to like the impossible Dolly.

Something else unexpected was discovering how much she’d missed the Ryans - and how much they seemed to have missed her. Lily and Pauline burst into tears when she turned up for the wedding, and Gladys gave her a hug and said how nice it was to have her back. Tom’s brothers kissed her with real affection and she realized she was still as much a part of the Ryan family as she was of the Kennys.

The ceremony was very touching - there was something poignant about two young people getting married in the middle of a war. Barely twenty-one, Gerald was in the Merchant Navy, and his eighteen-year-old bride, Lucy, had nearly been killed in an explosion in the munitions factory in Kirkby where she worked. No one could be sure how long they’d have together in such dangerous times.

Mollie felt a lump come to her throat when the priest pronounced them man and wife. She desperately wished that Irene had been alive to attend her grandson’s wedding and welcome a new Mrs Ryan into the family.

 

Two weeks later she went back to Duneathly. It was Saturday, the children had known what time she was coming and were waiting for her when the bus stopped in the square. Minutes later, she was sitting on the sofa while they piled on top of her, plying her with kisses, stroking her hair, and listening while she described her job, the people she worked with, the wedding, all things she had already told them in her letters, but which they wanted to know again. They were particularly interested in Dolly, whom they seemed to admire enormously; she couldn’t think why. Tommy asked if she would bring her to see them next time she came and Mollie said she’d try, but couldn’t promise anything.

The weekend flew by and, on Sunday afternoon, she sailed back to Liverpool, feeling as miserable as sin. But she cheered up as soon as she reached the Pier Head and caught the tram to Agatha’s.

This was now the pattern her life would follow. She didn’t know how long it would be this way, but she was beginning to enjoy it.

 

Five days before Christmas, Bobby Gifford flew to New York. Since his last visit, the entire face of the war had changed. Two weeks ago, Japanese aircraft had attacked Pearl Harbor, virtually destroying the American fleet. The full extent of the losses, both of ships and lives, was being kept secret. Days later, Hitler allied himself with the Japanese and declared war on America.

Bobby hadn’t been expecting anyone to meet him at the airport. He caught a cab to the Harrington, a small, comfortable hotel on Canal Street; Bill Flanaghan had cabled to say a room had been reserved in his name. As soon as he was shown to his room, he rang Bill to tell him he’d arrived.

‘We’re having a conference tomorrow,’ Bill told him, ‘but tonight, you, me, and two other guys on the paper that you haven’t met, Ben Overton and Chay Dennis, are having a night on the town. I’ve got tickets for a show and a table booked at Jerome’s Fish Bar afterwards. Until then, your time’s your own.’

They arranged to meet in the foyer of the Gaiety Theater on 42nd Street at half past seven. Bobby looked at his watch; just gone four. He knew exactly what he wanted to do in the meantime.

Half an hour later, he was in Bloomingdale’s admiring the decorations, listening to the carols being played over the loud-speaker, and looking for a gift for Bill and for Karen, the Swedish girl he’d been going out with for the last six months. He wished there were more people he could buy gifts for. His folks had been dead a long time and he had lost track of his sister during the Depression. It had been a relatively simple matter to discover that his wife was no longer his wife, having divorced him on the grounds of desertion in 1937. She had since re-married.

He had a childish love of Christmas, always had. Until he was twelve, he had stoutly refused to accept that Father Christmas didn’t exist. After getting Bill a scarf and Karen some very expensive perfume, he decided to treat himself to a shirt and a couple of ties. He left the shop, looked for a bar, and ordered a whiskey and soda.

Next time he came back, he wondered, would America be shrouded in blackout the same as Britain? Would Hitler, aided by the Japs, bomb the hell out of New York as he’d done London? Washington might well be the capital, but Bobby had always looked upon New York as the hub of the world.