The White Empress (26 page)

It was to be a much smaller, quieter wedding than had originally been planned. The service at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament.
A meal afterwards at home, then a few days in Southport with Brian. He had stayed with the
Empress of Britain
and so, she had heard, had David Barratt.

Despite all her earlier plans for white satin and Guipure lace and sweet pea colours of crêpe de Chine, Marie refused to have
the traditional wedding because of the growing shortages.

‘Everything has to be brought in by ship and as my Brian is part of the convoys, I won’t waste his time or anyone else’s.
If everyone gave up fripperies and concentrated on more important things, I’d feel a lot happier!’ She had replied to her
mother’s pleading that
she should at least have a proper wedding dress, as the other two had. ‘What would I do afterwards with yards of white satin,
Mum? Make it into lampshades?’

Mrs Gorry had thrown up her hands in despair, muttering that there was no romance left these days.

She had gone with Marie to Hendersons and helped choose the two-piece suit of lavender wool, the collar of which was trimmed
with white fur. She had bought a hat of lilac velour with a small veil and matching gloves and shoes.

‘They will all be more serviceable and I’ll wear my white silk blouse, the one I bought in Bangkok.’

‘It really does look very smart, you will look every inch a bride, especially with your bouquet,’ she had concurred. She herself,
as the only bridesmaid, had bought a sage green two-piece in Owen Owen’s and a beige hat, gloves and bag. She couldn’t waste
money now. Mrs Gorry had insisted on flowers and a cake. Mr Gorry had insisted on an Anderson shelter, for the first bombs
had fallen on 9 and 10 August on the other side of the Mersey.

Early on the morning of 26 October, David Barratt was on the bridge of the
Empress of Britain
. He felt edgy but then he had felt this way ever since their arrival on 8 September last year in Quebec when the white hull
had been painted grey and they had been laid up awaiting orders. The
Empress
had been requisitioned as a troop ship and had sailed for the Clyde on 10 December, on her first convoy. It had been then
that this edginess had first manifested itself. It hadn’t been so bad when they
had left Wellington in May, in the
Million Dollar Convoy
, in the company of the
Empress of Japan
, the
Mauretania
and the two Cunard
Queens
. He had felt fairly safe then.

He scanned the grey horizon with the binoculars but saw nothing but the vastness of the cold ocean. He had thought about her
on that trip for the first time in years. And for the first time he had wondered about Shelagh Cleary and the truth of her
allegations. He had been so furious, so hurt by Cat’s lies that he had never bothered to check them out, yet there were so
many things about her he couldn’t forget. His friendship with Brian Rothwell had come to an abrupt end for Brian had waylaid
him and called him a ‘coward, a cad, a bastard’. He had liked Brian and Marie and Marie’s obvious closeness to Cat had sown
the seeds of doubt in his mind. But he had never pursued any enquiries. He still smarted from the accusations she had flung
at him. Tied to his mother’s apron strings! Afraid to even express an opinion! Deep down he knew she was right, but that only
made him more determined to try to forget her.

He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his duffle coat. He was cold and tired and his eyes burned. By now he knew Cat’s
baby would have been born. She hadn’t lied about that, Brian had told him. His baby. His child. Or was it? He thought he heard
Shelagh Cleary’s mocking, raucous laughter, or was it just the wind? Was it a boy or a girl? What had she said, she would
make sure it grew up hating its father? What did it matter now? He looked at his watch. Nine fifteen. Three-quarters of an
hour and he would be relieved.

He scanned the horizon again. Nothing. The
edginess returned but he shook himself. It was only because they were sailing alone, he thought. Because of the
Empress
’s size and high speed of knots, it had been judged safe and RAF Coastal Command would meet her off the north-west coast of
Ireland and they had come this far safely, via the Suez Canal and well clear of the Azores. They were carrying military personnel
and their families back to Britain, 224 of them, outnumbered by a crew of 419, including himself.

He asked for their position and the voice on the intercom informed him ‘Sixty miles off the north-west coast of Ireland.’
Then he heard the drone of an engine and trained the binoculars skywards on the port side. Coastal Command at last. ‘Not before
bloody time, either!’ he muttered. He followed the flight pattern then his blood froze. It was not Coastal Command! He slammed
his fist down hard on the alarm button and immediately the klaxon blared out, ‘Action stations! Action stations!’ But the
sound was drowned out as the first bomb exploded on the top deck, near the tennis courts. The mighty liner shuddered and he
was flung to the deck. He clawed his way to his feet and looked back in horror. The whole of the midship section was ablaze.
Black smoke belched up through the gaping hole that reached as far as D deck. Frantically he tried the communication system.
It was dead. He turned back in time to see the plane coming directly for them, its machine guns spitting. He threw himself
to the deck as bullets raked the bridge, sending showers of glass and splinters of wood flying everywhere. He felt a searing
pain stab his chest and darkness began to claim him. He
heard the signal faintly. ‘Abandon Ship! Abandon ship!’ but he couldn’t move. Then he was thrown violently against the superstructure
amidst broken glass and instruments as another bomb found its target.

Somehow he managed to drag himself upright. Tiny, grotesque figures were running through the black, billowing smoke and wicked,
leaping flames. He fought for his breath. The plane was coming back again. He could hear the vicious staccato of machine guns.
They were the last sounds he heard as he slumped back onto the deck. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth,
his sightless eyes staring upwards to where the enemy plane turned for home, well out of range of the stricken ship’s high-angle
three-inch gun and four Lewis guns whose fire continued until it was a mere speck in the sky.

Most of the lifeboats were ablaze but Brian Rothwell helped lower one of those that was still intact. He would have expected
pandemonium to have surrounded him, but there was only a queer silence. A forced calmness, broken occasionally by the sob
of a terrified child. The heat was intense, the smoke choking. He looked down. God, but it had never looked so steep before!
The boat was slung off its davits and plunged downward, hitting the sea, knocking him into the water. He looked up and there
were tears in his eyes. The ship was doomed! She was ablaze from bow to stern! One plane! One bloody plane! Where the hell
was Coastal Command?

There were people around him in the water, jumping from portholes on the lower decks, clinging to life rafts.
The lifeboat was already overcrowded but there were women in the water. He shouted to four other members of the crew and without
a word they all slipped overboard, joining him in the freezing water, pulling, pushing the survivors towards the boat. If
he could just keep a hold on the boat, but already his fingers were becoming numbed. There was something wrong with his legs,
they wouldn’t move, no matter how he tried.

They were drifting away from the stricken
Empress
, he was losing sight of her. He was losing all feeling in his body, the sea was claiming it. The colour of the sea and sky
merged until all he could see were the tongues of flame. So near to home. So big a target. So small a plane. She was dying,
dying before his eyes. The thoughts spun in his head. Everything was getting darker. ‘Must be the smoke,’ he muttered.

They pulled him aboard and tried with what little resources they could muster, to revive him. A woman, her life-jacket over
her dressing gown, her hair dripping, looked at the others. She had been a nurse before her marriage. She shook her head.
‘It’s no use. He’s dead.’ The faces around her registered only blank shock. ‘I didn’t even have time to thank him,’ she murmured.

At four o’clock
HMS
Echo
, accompanied by some trawlers picked up the survivors. The
Empress
was stricken but in no danger of sinking. Her mighty bulk still maintained some dignity, emphasised now by the gaping holes
in her decks, her shattered rigging, the absence of her three funnels. She was taken in tow by the naval tugs
Marauder
and
Thames
who pulled her slowly towards home, towards the protection of the
destroyers
Highlander
and
Harvester
. She was shattered but not destroyed.

In the early afternoon two days later, with
Highlander
and
Harvester
steaming protectively at her bow and stern, she was within thirty miles of home. No one saw the evil black snake of the periscope.
No one saw the torpedoes streaking like black arrows beneath the surface of the dark waters, but they found their mark. The
Great White Empress suddenly heeled over to port and disappeared beneath the sea.

Two days later the U-boat U32 was attacked and sunk by
HMS
Harvester
. The White Empress was avenged.

T
HEY HEARD ABOUT IT
first from Brian’s father who telephoned. His call had been followed by a very brief one from Miss Sabell. A call Cat had
taken.

In the first traumatic seconds of shock Marie didn’t cry. But then Cat fled to her room, threw herself on the bed and covered
her head with the pillow, as Marie’s first hysterical screams pierced the silent house. But she couldn’t shut out the sound.
She wanted to run to Marie, to try to alleviate the grief and shock. To try to answer the tortured questions Marie screamed
aloud.

‘Why him! Oh, why him? Oh, Mum, why my Brian?’

But she couldn’t move. Shock had caused temporary paralysis and she didn’t cry either. Not at first.

The screams had subsided to muffled sobs and at last she found she could move. She pushed the suffocating pillow away. Her
room was in darkness. The winter dusk was falling rapidly and there were no street lights to brighten it. The blackout had
begun. She muttered a prayer. ‘Oh, not tonight, dear God! Please, not tonight!’
The wail of the air-raid siren was something she knew she couldn’t bear. Not tonight.

Her thoughts were confused. Her mind would focus clearly on one image for a few seconds, then it faded. Then would come a
void in which there was no thought pattern at all. This was replaced by disjointed phrases, half-formed thoughts and blurred
images. In these moments she heard David’s voice, felt his presence. Hollow laughter, faint music, the elusive smell of forgotten
perfumes. Words and places, Petionville, Williamsburg, Colombo – all drifted in and out of her mind and she was cold. Deathly
cold.

She reached out to pull the eiderdown quilt over her and her hand knocked against the chest of drawers beside the bed. Her
fingers closed over an object. She peered at it, trying to recognise it. It was a little sailor doll. Its uniform of blue
velvet, its white cotton hat, replicas of the uniform Eamon wore. It was a souvenir she had bought for Hilary. Even though
it was dark and she couldn’t see it clearly she didn’t need light to read the gold lettering on the black hatband. She knew
it from memory.
Empress of Britain
. And then she cried.

The pain started deep within her, crushing her chest, burning her throat until the scalding tears dropped down on the head
of the doll pressed against her cheek. She was crying for David, for Brian and Marie, for all the others – all her friends
– and she was crying for the White Empress. The tears soaked into the velvet suit and smudged the painted face. She was alone.
There was no one to comfort her in her grief; not even her baby for whom she had bought the ship’s little mascot. Hilary was
the only tangible thing left now of the life that had ended when the great White Empress had turned her keel skywards and
had died. And for once the dreaded siren was silent, all through the long hours of the night and into the cold, grey dawn.

They tried to regain some semblance of normality, despite the fact that the air-raids, which had become heavier in September
and October, were adding to the increasing strain of daily life. Everyone felt as though they were walking on a razor’s edge.
It was a situation that was totally alien, the underlying fear and tension sharpened by grief. Many buildings now lay in ruins
or were badly damaged – The Customs House, Wallasey Town Hall, the Anglican Cathedral, Central Station – and the banshee wail
of the siren was becoming increasingly familiar.

Cat found a reserve of strength hitherto unsuspected and Mrs Gorry proved to be a stronger character than she had ever imagined.
Two days after the news of the loss of the
Empress
, she returned to work. The following week Marie went back.

‘It’s the best thing for her. It will take her mind off . . . and there are others who have lost loved ones, she won’t be
alone in her loss!’ Mrs Gorry stated, firmly. ‘And there is a war on!’ It was a saying that was on everyone’s lips these days.

In the evenings, those dreaded evenings, when they would all sit waiting for the doleful wail that would send them all down
the garden and into the shelter, it was obvious that Marie had lost her zest for life. She was like
a martinet, her movements mechanical, her conversation stilted. Desperation filled Cat when she looked at her old friend.
The happy-go-lucky girl had gone and she was afraid she would never return.

At the end of November Joe’s convoy limped back into the Mersey. Each time they returned, breathing a heartfelt prayer that
they were in safe waters, he scanned the waterfront. Each time his heart was heavier. Each time there was more evidence of
devastation. He wasn’t suffering the nightmare alone. He shared it with the citizens of Liverpool as they sat huddled in Anderson
shelters or in the crowded, public shelters, waiting, waiting . . .

They had heard of the loss of the
Empress
. Half the world had by now and most of it grieved for her. After ascertaining that his own family were safe, he took the
tram to Walton.

She hugged him with relief. ‘You heard?’

He nodded. ‘Brian was a decent bloke. How is she?’

‘I can’t explain it, she’s changed. I don’t think she’ll ever get over it. Something’s gone from her.’

‘And you?’

‘It’s changed us all, Joe. It’s impossible not to change. I . . . I was sorry about . . . David. Sorry about all the others,
too. Sometimes I have dreams. I can see her . . . twisted, broken, burning . . . and people running.’

He shook her. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’

She steadied herself. Her finger traced the outline of the brass buttons on his uniform jacket. ‘I’m sorry. I was sorry about
the
City of Benares
and . . .’

He looked past her. That was his own private hell. His brother and all those children!

‘Joe! Come on in! Fancy keeping him in the hall, Cat!’ Mrs Gorry’s rebuke was accompanied by a smile of genuine relief.

‘Is Eamon alright?’ she asked as they went into the kitchen.

Marie looked up and smiled. The ghost of a once-bright, animated smile.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to eat? I’ll make you something while you sit and talk to Cat,’ Mrs Gorry disappeared
into the scullery.

Joe sat down.

‘How long ago did you leave Eamon?’ she asked.

‘Oh, about an hour. I went home first to see Mam. Dad is home, too. But Eamon won’t be long now, it’s nearly twenty past seven.
He’s probably got a girl he wants to see.’

Mrs Gorry continued the conversation from the scullery. ‘How is your mother managing, Joe? Is she short of anything? If there’s
anything I can do, you know . . .’ The rest of her words were drowned out.

Marie jumped nervously then clenched her hands tightly, the knuckles showing white. The wail rose to a crescendo and both
Cat and Joe jumped to their feet.

‘Oh, blast them to hell! Here, Cat, take the kettle! Be careful it has boiled! Bernard, get those blankets! Come on, luv!’
Mrs Gorry seemed more annoyed than afraid as she caught her daughter’s hands and pulled her to her feet.

They crowded into the shelter and Mr Gorry lit the
candles. At first they had tried using a Tilley stove, fired with paraffin, for heat and oil lamps for light, but the fumes
from the stove had nearly choked them and the lamps had smoked, adding to the discomfort.

‘This place is always cold and damp! Here, Cat, give me the kettle!’ Mrs Gorry grumbled. Cat just stood staring at her. ‘What’s
the matter?’

‘Eamon!’ She started to shrug on her coat.

‘You’re not going anywhere! He’ll be alright! If he’s still at Mrs O’Dwyer’s they’ll all be in the nearest shelter now and
if he was already on his way, they’ll stop the tram and get them all somewhere safe!’

‘But what if he’s walking? What if—’

‘You’re not going out, Cat!’ Joe added his voice to the argument.

Marie had started to cry softly and she allowed Joe to pull off her coat. Then she sat beside Marie, holding her hands, while
Mrs Gorry made a cup of tea.

For three hours they sat and listened to the drone of the enemy planes and the shrill whistling that preceded the explosions,
while Mr and Mrs Gorry and Joe tried to keep up a lively conversation. She was too worried about Eamon and too nervous either
to listen or sit still for very long. She refused to join in the game of Ludo that Mrs Gorry suggested when conversation had
been exhausted.

At ten o’clock the all-clear sounded. She fastened up her coat and put on her hat.

‘I’m going to look for him!’

‘Don’t be a fool, he’ll be on his way now and you’ll miss him!’ Joe argued.

‘I don’t care! It’s bad enough while he’s at sea, but now . . . if you won’t come with me I’ll go on my own!’ She was very
near to tears.

‘Oh, alright!’ he conceded.

They got a tram as far as the Rotunda Music Hall, then they had to walk and she began to realise that Joe’s logic had made
sense. Fires were blazing all over the city, the glowing red patches lighting up the dark sky. Fire engines and ambulances
hurtled past them and the nearer to Vauxhall Road they walked the worse it got. Broken water mains flooded the roads. The
stench from damaged sewers was nauseating. They had to skirt huge craters in the road, clamber over piles of bricks that a
few hours ago had been houses. Streets were cordoned off because of the dangers of fractured gas pipes and partly demolished
buildings. The nearer they got the more appalling were the scenes and she wished she hadn’t come at all.

‘It’s never been as bad as this!’

‘Look, Cat, you’ll have to go on by yourself! I’ve got to help, I can’t stand by while people are trapped!’

‘But what if—’

‘Go on, Cat! You’ll be alright!’ He turned and ran back, clambering over a heavy wooden beam to where the police and wardens
were starting their grim task of searching for people trapped in the rubble.

She could see the flames ahead and smell the smoke. The docks had been hit again. Then she gave a cry of relief and began
to run. Eldon Street had escaped.

She hammered with her fist on the door of number eight.

Maisey opened it. ‘Cat! Gerrin ’ere! What the ’ell are yer doin’, cumin’ out?’

‘Oh, Maisey! Is everyone alright? Is Eamon here?’

‘’Course ’e is an’ we’re all fine!’

She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

‘Cum in, I was just makin’ some tea.’

She was smothered in her brother’s embrace but when the first surge of relief passed she turned on him. ‘Why didn’t you come
straight home? You had me worried half to death? You should have been in the shelter with us, this . . . this is the worst
raid we’ve had!’

‘Leave ’im alone, Cat, ’e was safe enough with us, we was all under the stairs!’

She was incredulous. ‘Under the stairs! Why didn’t you go to the shelter? If the house, or next door, had gone, you would
all have been buried!’

‘Stairs ’as been good enough in the past! ’Ow was I ter know they would blast ’ell out of us fer bloody hours? Is it bad?’

She nodded. ‘Joe’s gone to help. It looks as though half the city has been hit, there’s fires everywhere!’

‘Bloody incendiaries,’ Eamon muttered.

‘Is Joe cumin’ on?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll go and see what I can do. I’ll get back home as soon as I can, Cat, and you’d better get back, too. They’ll be worried
about you.’ Eamon had gone before she could stop him.

Maisey placed the mugs down on the table. ‘Cat, we’ve all gorra pull tergether, these days. I’m not lettin’
no bloody Jerries get me down! Mind you, I’m goin’ ter burn that dress of our Dora’s!’

‘What dress?’ She wondered tiredly what a dress had to do with the present situation.

Maisey sipped her tea then continued. ‘She bought the dress in C & A. Red-white-an’-blue-striped taffetta it is, an’ every
time she wears the damned thing ter go out, she an’ Bessie get ter the end of the street an’ the siren goes! An’ then I’m
yellin’ me ’ead off at the door fer them ter cum back, an’ the pair of them leggin’ it round the corner fer a tram! I don’t
care ’ow much she kicks up, that blasted dress is goin’! It’s like red rag to a bull!’

She smiled. ‘It’s just coincidence, Maisey!’

‘Well tharran’ all, but it’s goin’ on the back of the fire, just the same!’

She sipped the tea and watched the young O’Dwyers’ noses pressed to the windows, peering out. Trying to outdo each other in
counting the fires. It was all a game to them, she thought. She had been considerably shaken by the events of the night and
watching the children made her think of Sean Cleary.

‘Have you heard anything of . . . Shelagh and Sean?’

‘No! I’m norra bad-minded woman, but I’ve enough worries an’ so ’ave you.’

‘She’s still my sister.’

‘An’ she ruined yer life! What she did was downright evil, Cat, don’t forget that! She set out ter hurt you as much as she
could!’

She finished the tea. There hadn’t been any sugar in it but she hadn’t noticed the fact until now. ‘If I
hadn’t lied so much, she wouldn’t have been able to hurt me.’

‘She always ’ated you.’