The White Empress (27 page)

‘But she’s still my flesh and blood.’

Maisey started to interrupt but she stopped her. ‘Everything has changed Maisey. The world’s gone mad. No one knows if tomorrow
will even come, if we’ll survive another night! It’s no time for harbouring grudges, for hating . . . the old life has gone.
Everything about it has gone, except Hilary and Joe and it was Joe that set me thinking of Sean.’

‘So, what do yer intend ter do?’

‘Go and see her.’

‘Yer not goin’ up there, ter that place?’

‘I am! I want her to let me take Sean to Wales, he’ll be safer there.’

‘She’ll laugh in yer face, Cat!’

‘Maybe, maybe not, but she must care something for him! She can’t be that bad!’

‘Well she doesn’t from what I’ve ’eard! ’Er that runs the place – face like a ruptured custard she’s got, I’ve seen ’er ’round
the town – sees to ’im most of the time.’

‘Then I’ll talk to her . . .’

Maisey crossed herself. ‘Yer poor Ma would turn in ’er grave at the thought of you talkin’ ter that . . . that . . . one!’

‘Where’s Pa?’ The reference to her mother had automatically brought him to mind.

‘Finally cum to ’is senses. ’E’s out with our Hughie, ’elpin the wardens. ’E ’elps repair damage in the daytime, too. Just
my luck ain’t it? I gets the two of ’em
with steady work and fer once in me life I’m not short of a shillin’ or two an’ there’s ’ardly anythin’ in the bloody shops
ter buy!’

After her shift next day she went to see Maisey again, this time for directions where to find The Barracks. She was tired.
No one slept well these days. It had been nearly dawn when she heard Eamon’s key in the door. She had gone down. She was on
the early shift anyway. He had been grey with fatigue. His eyes red-rimmed from dust, lack of sleep and the horrors he had
seen. He was filthy dirty and his hands were cut and bleeding. He informed her that Joe had gone home but that he’d be down
to see her that night, providing there wasn’t an early raid. She’d made some breakfast, then sent him to get a wash and some
sleep.

In the miserable, damp November daylight, the full extent of the damage was even more hideous. Gangs of workmen struggled
to clear the roads and restore the water, electricity and gas supplies. Others continued to search for survivors amongst the
still smouldering piles of rubble that had been homes, shops and offices. In Rooney’s, the small corner shop Maisey frequented,
the windows had been blown in. But the glass had been swept up, the rubble piled in one corner and all the stock that was
salvageable was set out on a makeshift counter. Tacked to a piece of splintered window frame was a piece of paper, announcing
‘
BUSINESS AS USUAL
’.

Underneath was the caption ‘And a bit of Liverpool muck never hurt anyone!’ A reference to the sorry state of some of the
provisions. She smiled. It was typical.
There were battered but unbowed. The shop was crowded.

As she entered the kitchen Maisey slammed down the old iron stew pot on the range, then clipped her youngest around the ear
for wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jumper. ‘Use yer ’ankie!’ she snapped, poking the fire vigorously. Cat saw the charred
remains of the striped taffetta dress. Obviously there had been a row.

‘I thought you’d ’ave changed yer mind?’

‘No.’

Maisey grunted. ‘Then go straight up Upper Parlie Street, turn left, then right an’ it’s a big square ’ouse, looks like an
army barracks, but fallin’ ter bits! An’ don’t say I didn’t warn yer!’

Maisey was obviously in a far from convivial mood, so she thanked her, placed some rashers of bacon wrapped in greaseproof
paper on the table, and turned to leave.

‘’Ang on a minute, yer not goin’ up there by yerself! I’d not rest in me bed, I’m cumin’ with you!’

‘No. You’ve got enough to do. She’s my sister.’

‘Aye, God ’elp yer, she is, an I know ’er, so I’m cumin’ too! So yer can just wait ’til I get me coat an’ ’at!’

I
T DID LOOK LIKE AN
army barracks. It was a big, square, austere house and, had it been in pristine condition, would have been the most dominant
house in the street. Eight square windows with small, dirty panes in each were set into the upper storey and the same number
on the ground floor. The front door was battered and scarred and totally devoid of paint. The front gate was missing and weeds
were waist high in the overgrown garden.

The woman who opened the door, in response to Maisey’s hammering, was not dissimilar to the house. She was big and square.
She seemed to have no soft curves, even her face was angular, somewhat different to Maisey’s description of a face ‘like a
ruptured custard’.

‘Is Shelagh Cleary, or O’Mara, in?’ she asked.

Maisey was peering intently into the hallway behind the woman.

‘Who wants ’er?’

‘Her sister. I’m Cat, Catherine Cleary.’

The hard, suspicious eyes softened. ‘Why didn’t yer say so? Cum in, luv!’ She stepped back a pace.

‘Cum in! Cum in! Yer ’ardfaced trollop! I’d sooner set foot in an Orangeman’s Church than in this . . . this . . . whorehouse!
Go an’ ger ’er!’ Maisey fumed.

‘Who the ’ell are you?’

‘None of yer business, now go an’ ger ’er or I’ll call the scuffers!’

‘I’ll put yer bleedin’ eye in a sling if yer do!’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop it!’ said Cat. ‘We haven’t come here to start an argument! Could you please ask Shelagh to come
out?’

The woman glared at Maisey, retreated a few paces and then bawled out to Shelagh that there were two women to see her. One
of them said she was her sister, but she sounded so posh she thought she must have the wrong house and the wrong name. The
other one looked like ‘Yer owld gerl!’

At this insult Maisey took one step forward and yelled, ‘I’ll purra lip on yer!’

Cat dragged her back. ‘Ignore her, Maisey!’

Maisey folded her arms over her ample bosom, the light of battle in her eyes.

Shelagh at last appeared. A stained mauve, satin dressing gown clutched to her, a cigarette in her hand. Cat was shocked by
her appearance. Even though it had been years since she had last seen her, Shelagh had changed so much she hardly recognised
her. She was grossly overweight, the dressing gown clinging to the sagging breasts and outlining the distended belly. Her
hair was a brittle, peroxide blonde, but the roots were
dark. Her face was bloated, the eyes seemed to have grown smaller. Smudges of mascara, rouge and lipstick were left from the
night before. The stale smell of cheap perfume mingled with body odour and stale tobacco.

‘Me dream’s out! I never thought I’d see you again!’ Shelagh laughed, leaning against the door and appraising Cat from head
to toe, the bemused grin lingering on her face.

‘An’ if I’d ’ad me way she wouldn’t be ’ere now!’

‘Maisey, please!’ she begged. It was going to be difficult enough and she didn’t want to antagonise her sister from the outset.

‘Well, what do you want? I heard your ship got sunk and that he was dead.’

She felt anger begin to rise but she fought it down. She refused to be provoked. ‘Yes, but I haven’t come to talk about that
. . . any of it.’

‘Need ’orse whippin’, the whole lot of ’em!’ Maisey muttered.

‘Found another rich feller, then, or are you still hanging on to Joe Calligan? At least he’s better than nothing!’ Shelagh
sneered.

This was too much for Maisey. She drew herself up to her full height, bosom heaving. ‘Tharrell do you! ’Ardfaced little bitch!
Any more of that an yer’ll feel the back of me ’and!’

Shelagh turned on her. ‘You sod off, Maisey O’Dwyer! You chucked me out, so don’t come here with your Holy Mary attitude!’

Maisey crossed herself and stormed down the path.
‘If I stay ’ere I’ll swing for ’er, so ’elp me I will! I’ll wait at the corner, Cat!’

‘You haven’t changed, have you?’ Cat said quietly.

The smirk left Shelagh’s face. ‘Yes, I have! Just look at me! Go on, take a good look!’

She couldn’t meet her eyes. There was nothing in this overblown, brassy tart that reminded her of the old Shelagh.

‘An’ its all your fault! You could have helped me, so don’t you start preaching at me! But I got even, didn’t I? I swore I
would—’

‘And I’ve just told you I’ve not come here to talk about that!’ she interrupted. ‘Shelagh, listen to me! Things have changed
. . .’

‘Not here they haven’t!’

She ignored the interruption. ‘Last night’s raid was the worst we’ve had, so far. It might get worse. It’s no time for hatred,
bitterness, old scores.’

Shelagh finished her cigarette, threw the stump on the floor and folded her arms. ‘So?’

‘So don’t you think it’s time—’

‘Oh, God! Don’t tell me you’ve come up here expecting a show of sisterly love? Let’s forget the past and all that shit! You
got what you deserved, Cat—’

‘Stop it! Stop it, Shelagh! We’re even now!’

‘Are we?’

She faced her squarely. ‘Yes, we are! There was never much love lost between us, was there, and obviously we will never even
be . . . friends.’

‘So what have you come for?’

‘To talk to you about Sean.’

‘What about him?’

She took a deep breath. She’d promised herself she would be honest, no matter what the cost. ‘I have a child myself. A little
girl.’ She waited for the ridicule, the jeers, the burst of malicious laughter. None came. Shelagh pulled out a crumpled cigarette
packet and offered her one. She shook her head as her sister lit hers, then waited for her to speak.

‘He didn’t marry you?’

‘No. It doesn’t matter, I’ve already told you that!’

‘Where is she?’

‘In Wales, with friends.’

‘You always had friends, Cat, didn’t you?’

‘Let me take Sean to stay with them and Hilary. You must care for his safety and it’s not safe here, not any more! Please,
Shelagh, let me take him.’

Shelagh pulled herself upright. ‘No! You got what you wanted out of life! You always had more than me, even Ma loved you more
than she loved me! You’ve still got more than me. A good life, good friends, people to look after you and your baby. Well,
you’re not having Sean as well! He’s mine!’

‘I don’t want him, not in the way you mean! I’m only thinking of his safety!’

‘No, you’re not! You want to take over, you want to bring him up to look down his nose at me! To be ashamed of his mother!
Well, he’s staying here! I’ve got friends, too. Oh, they may be whores but they’re better than the likes of Maisey O’Dwyer
and the other hypocrites!’

She tried again. ‘Shelagh, please, do you want him to be hurt or even—?’

‘We’ve got shelters, too! He’s staying with me!’

‘You won’t change your mind? I’ll bring him back to see you as often as I can?’

‘No!’

She knew it was useless. ‘Then I’ll just have to pray that he will be alright . . . and you, too.’

‘Pray all you like, it won’t do any good! If there was anyone up there do you think He’d let all this go on? Live for today,
enjoy yourself, that’s my motto!’ She smiled, but without malice. ‘He’s all I’ve got, can’t you understand that?’

Reluctantly she nodded.

‘Go home, Cat! Clear off, you’ll give the place a bad reputation!’

She saw a fleeting glimpse of the sister she had known in the wry smile and she smiled back, sadly. If only . . . but it was
no use to dwell on the past. At least there had been a reconciliation, of sorts, between them. ‘Pa’s working and helping out
in the raids as well,’ she ventured.

‘That’s a bloody miracle! Don’t expect it to last too long though, nothing ever does!’

She turned away. ‘Bye, Shelagh, take care.’

That night the raiders came again and tons of incendiaries and high-explosive bombs rained down on the city. There was nothing
anyone could do except sit and wait – nerves stretched to breaking point – listening to the continuous droning and the whistling
that preceded death and destruction, the explosions that shook the whole of the city and the sound of the anti-aircraft guns.

‘Don’t worry, they say you don’t hear the one that’s
got your number on it, that must be a blessing. It’s only the near misses you hear!’ Mrs Gorry tried to sound light-hearted
but failed.

She thanked God that at least Eamon was with her but she prayed for Joe and the O’Dwyers, Shelagh and little Sean Cleary and
her father. ‘Please Holy Mother, keep them all safe! Let them come through this night!’ But even if her prayers were answered
– this time – she knew it would go on and on, for the convoy was to sail again tomorrow. Unless every ship had been blown
out of the water.

After those two nights in November the raids eased up, on Liverpool at least. The Luftwaffe turned its attentions to other
cities. It would be a depressing Christmas, she thought as she travelled home on the train from her shift. In fact it would
be miserable. Everything was getting shorter, the strain of waiting and worrying grew worse. Over thirty destroyers had been
lost so far and thousands of tons of merchant shipping. But the port stayed open, the dockers working flat out, despite the
difficulties. Joe and Eamon were due home on 19 December but she didn’t know if they would both still be home for Christmas.

Marie was slowly getting over her loss. Occasionally she would smile and laugh. Some days she was almost like her old self,
almost but not quite. Other days she would be silent and withdrawn.

The battered, depleted convoy arrived. Joe never said much about his experiences and she didn’t ask.

‘I’ve got a treat for you. I’ve managed to get tickets for a show at the Empire on the 21st,’ he announced when he met her
from work. She told him of her attempts to make Shelagh see reason.

‘Do you want me to go and see her?’

‘No! I’m not having you going to a place like that!’

‘She might listen to me?’

‘No!’

It was getting dark and bitterly cold. She pulled her scarf up around her ears. The traffic on Walton Road was heavy and noisy.
She pushed the thoughts of her sister to the back of her mind and brightened up at the forthcoming treat. There wasn’t much
fun in anyone’s life these days, it would be good to relax for a few hours, knowing he was safely beside her and that Eamon
was home, too.

As they reached the corner of the road the siren sounded.

‘Oh, no! Not this early! It’s only half past six!’ she cried.

Joe grabbed her hand and they began to run. Fortunately it wasn’t far but they were both out of breath as they hammered on
the front door.

Eamon opened it. ‘Quick, get out the back! We’ve got all the stuff!’

They ran through the darkened house, down the garden and into the shelter. Mrs Gorry was standing with the frying pan still
in her hand. Marie was sitting on one of the narrow metal bunks, the tea plates on her lap.

‘Well, that’s the liver and bacon ruined! And I had to queue for hours, too! You’d think they could have waited until we’d
got the tea over!’

Joe laughed. ‘Mrs Gorry, you’re a treasure! We’ll eat it raw if it will make you happy!’

She smiled at him. ‘You might have to, I forgot to get more paraffin for the primus stove!’

It was the longest and most terrifying night she had ever known. It was fairly quiet at first and as they ate the half-cooked,
half-cold meal, Mrs Gorry debated aloud whether it wouldn’t have been wiser to have waited for supper. Half-cooked liver was
not good for the digestive system and obviously it wasn’t going to be a long raid.

Then at eight o’clock it got worse. Far worse than anything they had experienced before. It was impossible to talk. The shelter
shook, the dishes clattered, the candles flickered and only the quick actions of Eamon stopped two of them from falling on
the bunks and setting the blankets alight. She clung to Joe while Mrs Gorry hugged Marie to her, her hands over her daughter’s
ears in an ineffectual attempt to blot out the noise. Eamon smoked continually and his hands shook. Mr Gorry sat as though
in a daze. Each explosion dragging up memories twenty five years old, of men and ships blown to pieces before his eyes. And
still it went on. They sat huddled in blankets on the narrow beds, wondering if it would ever end, if this was the night they
all dreaded, the last night of their lives. It was 4 a.m. the following morning when the all-clear sounded.

They straggled back into the house, exhausted, cold, hungry.

‘We’d better see what we can do to help,’ Mr Gorry said, dully.

‘Not before you’ve all had something to eat! Fine Christmas this is going to be!’ came the acid remark from the scullery where
his wife was already busy.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Cat offered.

‘No. You’d better go and see if the O’Dwyers are alright and . . . and my Mam, if you will?’ Joe asked.

She nodded. ‘If everyone’s alright, I’ll go straight to work, that’s if there’s any work left to go to!’

It was ten times worse than the November bombings. Services had had to be brought in for miles around. Food warehouses in
Dublin Street were still burning, as was the Waterloo Grain House. A huge pall of black smoke hung over the docks. The Cunard
Buildings had been hit as had the dock board offices, but the devastation of houses was the worst.