The White Empress (29 page)

‘That cost me milluns, our Mam, an it weren’t tatty!’ Dora flung back with some exaggeration. She had obviously not forgotten
the striped taffetta dress.

Despite herself, Cat burst out laughing. It would take more than a heavy air raid, the loss of her home and all her possessions
to defeat the likes of Maisey O’Dwyer!

The convoy hadn’t been diverted and late that afternoon she stood on the landing stage and watched them come slowly up the
river. Sections of the docks still smouldered and an increasingly bigger swathe of destruction had been cut through the heart
of the city, but the port was still working. They looked like tired, battered, old warhorses, she thought, their hulls as
grey and dirty as the murky water that buoyed them up. Her eyes misted as, behind the convoy and sailing alone, she recognised
the
Empress of Japan
. There was nothing about her now of that majestic ship that she had stood and gazed at, on this very spot, years ago. Her
hull was a dirty, mottled grey. Patches of rust were visible, her rigging was damaged and only her three funnels, partly camouflaged,
identified her as the former flagship. The muscles in her throat constricted as she thought of that other Empress that lay
on the ocean bed, and of all the Canadian Pacific ships that had gone down. The
Beaverbrea
, the
Montrose
, the
Beaverburn
, the
Niagara
, the
Beaverdale
and
Beaverford
. Seven from a fleet of twenty-two, in one short year.

It was nearly an hour later when she hugged them
both, after fighting her way through the crowd of wives, mothers and dock workers.

‘Holy Mother of God! When did all this happen? How is everyone?’ Joe asked, shocked.

‘Last night. We’ve got a hole in the roof, Maisey’s been bombed out and the city is devastated, but we’ve all survived and
we’re managing! And, as they probably won’t be back tonight, I think we’ve all got something to celebrate!’

‘A lot more than most, I should think.’

‘I promised I’d come straight back. I’ve seen Maisey and both of you, so I’d best be off now.’

‘I’d better go and see if Mam is alright. How about us all going for a drink tonight? You, me, Eamon and Marie?’

‘I don’t know about Marie, she’s been out a few times with a chap from work. I wrote to you about it.’

‘We got no mail, this time.’

‘I’ve promised to meet a few of the lads later.’ Eamon interrupted.

‘Then it’s just you and me, Cat. Shall I pick you up?’

‘No, I’ll come in on the tram. There’s no sense dragging you all the way out to Walton, just in case they do come again.’

She had insisted he only saw her safely on to the tram, he looked so tired, he needed some rest, she urged. She’d be fine,
didn’t she manage all the time he was away?

‘I worry about you, Cat! I worry all the time!’

‘Well don’t, you’ve got enough to think about . . . out there.’

He placed his arms on her shoulders and looked down at her. He knew he had changed, there were times when he felt he would
never regain that spirit of youth, that optimistic enthusiasm for life. He felt like an old man. A tired, bitter, old man.
But looking down at her she looked no different from the girl he had always known, although now she was a woman of nearly
twenty-six. But the love he felt for her had not diminished, it had increased.

‘Look after yourself, Cat—’

‘Oh, Joe! You know I will!’

She placed her arms around his neck and he drew her close.

‘Oh, I miss you so much, Joe!’

His lips sought hers and she responded. It was the first time he had held her and kissed her like this since . . . Oh, it
was a lifetime ago! But the jealousy had gone now.

She drew away from him and looked calmly up into his eyes, but before he could speak she placed her fingertips on his lips.

‘No! Not yet! Not yet!’

‘Cat!’ There was agony in his voice.

‘I know, my own dearest Joe, but what kind of future . . . how much time—?’

‘It’s better than nothing at all, Cat!’

She knew he was too proud to plead, even in such uncertain circumstances. She reached up and kissed him tenderly. ‘I couldn’t
bear it, Joe! I couldn’t stand to lose you! I’m not strong, it’s just an act we all put on, otherwise we’d all go out of our
minds! But if . . . when . . .’

He drew her close to him and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll hold you to that, Cat Cleary! It will end one day and I’ll be here!
I’ve let you slip through my fingers for the last time!’

A feeling of infinite peace surged through her. ‘I’ve been such a fool, Joe, forgive me? I was always my own worst enemy.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive, Cat.’

She pressed her cheek close to his. ‘I love you, Joe Calligan. I think I’ve always loved you but I’ve been too blind, too
stubborn, too proud to admit it, until now.’

He stroked her hair. Once her words would have filled him with a fierce passion, now he felt contentment and an all-consuming
tenderness for her. ‘You’ve always known I loved you, Cat, I can’t deny it, and I suffered a hell of jealously and rage when
. . . well all that’s over. I may never get to be second officer but—’

‘Oh, Joe, living like this has made me realise that wealth and status are empty, useless things. This war has swept away everything
I once thought was so important. It’s people who matter, and love and kindness and loyalty and those are the greatest gifts
you have to offer and I love you for sharing them with me!’

They stood in silence, clinging to each other, praying that the bond of love that had been forged ten years ago would not
be broken by tragedy.

His weariness had left him as he watched the tram trundle away. He’d waited so long, suffered so much, but it had been worth
it. When all this was over, she would be waiting for him.

He made his way back towards the docks. His aunt’s home was dreadfully overcrowded, as yet another group of relations had
moved in. Families were doubling and trebling up as more and more homes were destroyed. He wanted some peace and quiet to
think, to reflect, and there would be more chance of that back on board as most of the crew of
HMS
Firefly
were ashore.

He had reached the Dock Road when the sirens sounded. It was 11.10. His first thoughts were for Cat, but he realised she would
be well on her way home and would be hastily sent off to the nearest shelter, as the tram was evacuated. The droning of the
first wave of raiders followed almost immediately. There hadn’t been much of a warning. He began to run as the first incendiaries
found their target, sending a shower of sparks into the air, he increased his pace, oblivious to the explosions around him.
He kept on running. He hadn’t sweated and toiled, prayed and wept, watched the deaths of so many, many ships and men to run
for cover now. Not now when they had come to destroy the precious cargoes they had nursed all the way home. He reached No.
2 Husskison Dock barely able to speak, he was so breathless. Already there were fires raging and engines hurtling in from
all directions. The bastards! The bastards! He cursed to himself. He stopped and leaned against the wall of a shed to regain
his breath. Ahead of him, outlined by the glare, was the
Malakand
. Men were working frantically at the pumps and were successfully dousing the flames over the No. 1 hatch. He jerked into
action. They would need more help. The
Malakand
was loaded with 1,000 tons of high-explosive bombs!

He reached the dockside and raced up the gangway, as a shower of incendiaries burst around them. Explosions rocked the entire
dock and soon the cargo sheds were alight. The fire engines continued to arrive, the men playing their hoses on the sheds
on the east and south sides. Dim figures that became lost in the dense smoke, only to reappear as men bent double over the
hoses as they fought to contain the fires. As he raced along the deck he could feel the heat through the soles of his boots.
Sweat poured down his face from the searing heat, but he set to work with the crew.

The blaze had reached the contents of the cargo shed on the south side and the building errupted into a solid wall of flames.

‘It’s no use! It’s spreading!’ someone yelled.

He turned. The flames had reached the
Malakand
.

‘She’ll go up! Get the hell out of it!’ The officer-incharge swore roundly. The fire was a blazing beacon and the raiders
homed in on it. The heat and smoke were suffocating as more incendiaries fell and the bombers flew lower, so low at times
that their black shapes seemed only a few feet above them.

He began to cough and his eyes were smarting, the deck was red hot. He turned again. Above the cacophany he heard Captain
Kinley give the order to ‘Abandon ship’. He followed the others down the gangway and to a point where the shed was least affected
by the fire. The
Malakand
was ablaze from stem to stern.

The fire officer in charge, Mr Lappin, shouted for them to help his own men, and grappling with a hose, beside two other men,
he fought to quell the inferno.
His arms and shoulders ached. The enemy aircraft droned overhead unheeded. It was useless, the blazing wall of cargo sheds
made it impossible to get near enough to try to train the hoses on the ship.

Across his path of vision he saw a blurred figure running along the side of the shed. He rubbed his eyes with the back of
his hand. In this hell of heat, smoke and flames it was impossible to recognise any individual. But as the figure ran towards
them a face flashed into his mind. Eamon! He heard the others curse him as he began to run. The roaring and rushing of the
flames drowned out his warning cries. He looked up and launched himself bodily across the few feet that separated them. They
collided, falling on the wet cobbles, rolling over and over with the momentum of the impact. There was a groaning, splintering
sound as the roof of the shed collapsed. They were both soaking wet, the cold water drenching them, as a fire hose was played
on them, extinguishing their burning uniforms.

He dragged himself to his knees. Eamon lay sprawled on the floor. Shaking his head to try to clear his vision, he tried to
pull him upright. His strength seemed to have drained from him. His arms felt like lumps of lead, his legs were unsteady.
Somehow he half-pulled, half-dragged the unconscious lad backwards until he felt hands reach out for them both and he was
borne bodily away. The last thing he remembered was a blinding flash of white light and a roaring in his ears so loud he thought
his brain was bursting through his skull. The
Malakand
had exploded.

C
OMPARED WITH THE FLOOD
of casualties around them, their injuries were superficial and they both became voluntary stretcher-bearers. A heavy bomb
had fallen in the back courtyard of Mill Road Infirmary, demolishing three hospital buildings, damaging the rest and many
surrounding houses. The resulting carnage was appalling and patients were transferred to hospitals that were already overcrowded.

When the flood had diminished to a trickle and they were both exhausted, they stepped out into the street, surprised to find
it was daylight. The sun and a blue sky lay somewhere beyond the pall of smoke that hung over the city. They were shocked
at the sights that met their eyes but too exhausted even to feel anger and hatred. The burns to their hands and faces began
to smart now that there was time to reflect on them.

They found Mrs Gorry alone in the house. Cat and Marie had left for work and Mr Gorry, despite being out all night, had gone
to try to maintain his business.

‘Thank God! We’ve been out of our minds with worry, where’ve you been?’

‘First we were at the docks; the
Malakand
blew up, and then at the hospital – you heard about Mill Road?’ Joe answered.

She nodded grimly.

‘Apart from a few scratches and minor burns we’re alright.’

She stopped chopping the carrots, potatoes and the small onions she had managed to get from the greengrocer’s. It would be
‘blind scouse’ tonight, she hadn’t been able to get any meat. Not even a bit of scrag end. She went into the scullery and
returned with a stone jar which contained the precious dripping.

‘Hold out your hands, both of you!’

They complied like small boys and she smeared the grease over the raw patches. ‘Didn’t they put anything on them? Didn’t they
give you something to put on them?’

‘They needed everything for the more serious cases.’ Eamon winced as he eased off his jersey while she gently rubbed the grease
across his back.

‘What state are the docks in?’

‘Pretty bad, but not out of action.’

‘Then you won’t be off again too soon?’

‘No. We’ll be here for a few days, I should think. We’ll have to report back though. I’ll wait and see Cat then I’ll get off
and see Mam.’

‘Not before you’ve had some sleep, my lad! Dear God! It’s enough to make the angels weep! Still, they must be running out
of bombs by now, surely?’

Mrs Gorry’s ever-optimistic hopes were dashed. Far from running out of bombs they came again that night and attacked with
equal ferocity. Cat and Marie had returned from work and Joe was about to leave when the raid started.

They tried all the usual diversions. Improvised games, family reminiscences going back generations, general chit-chat, until
everything was exhausted. Then they tried to sleep but everyone was too restless and on edge.

Just before midnight and with no sign of a let up, Cat broke down. Joe took her in his arms as both Marie and her mother fought
to control themselves.

‘Oh, why? Why? Why don’t they leave us alone?’ she sobbed.

‘Because of the port, Cat! They’ve got to try to stop the port from working and the convoys.’

She raised a tear-streaked face. ‘Isn’t it enough that they’ve already sunk so many ships? It’s people now! Innocent children,
women and old folk!’

‘Stop it, Cat! This is just what they want, to terrify and demoralise us so that we’ll give up!’

‘But we can’t take much more! Three nights in a row now! There won’t be anyone or anything left to give up!’

He held her away from him and shook her. ‘What’s happened to you, Cat Cleary? Is this the same girl who swore she’d be chief
stewardess of an Empress, no matter what? What’s happened to all the fight, all the pig-headed stubbornness?’ he shouted at
her, mainly to emphasise his words but also because the noise of the bombardment had grown louder.

The other three sat watching tensely, aware that the outcome of this challenge would affect their own attitudes. In their
eyes Cat had fought and triumphed over every obstacle that malign fate had thrown in her path. But she was weakening and that
fact eroded their own confidence.

Joe could feel her trembling.

‘It’s all gone, Joe! At the end of this there won’t be any Empresses! There won’t be any ships . . . they’ll have gone . .
. like the
Empress of Britain
!’

He caught her right hand and jerked it upwards so that her fingers were immediately in her line of vision, the back of her
hand facing her. ‘Do you remember what I said when I gave you that ring? The tiger’s eye? You can be a right little cat at
times, isn’t that what I said? You’ve fought everything and everyone for years, you can’t stop now! I won’t let you stop!
You’ve got to fight on, we’ve all got to fight on!’

Her gaze left his face and flickered across the faces of the others, before resting on the ring he had bought her all those
years ago and which she had always worn. She felt calmer. Common sense always had that effect on her. In some ways they all
looked to her for strength, even Mrs Gorry, indomitable though she appeared. They all needed each other, depended on each
other for support. He was right. She couldn’t give up. They couldn’t give up.

Next morning when Joe and Eamon had gone – Joe to see his mother before reporting back to his ship – she went to see Maisey,
dreading what she would find. She found her and her brood sitting huddled dejectedly on
the edge of the broken kerb, their possessions in bundles, around them. And although Maisey greeted her with her usual cry
of delight, she realised that Maisey was badly shaken.

‘So the rest of it’s gone now,’ she sighed, gazing down the street.

‘There won’t be a bloody ’ouse left in the whole city at this rate! I’ve ’ad enough! Even the rest centres aren’t safe an’
they’re so crowded I can’t keep my eye on this lot!’

She sat down on a mound of rubble beside them. ‘What are you going to do? Mrs Gorry will gladly take you in, you know that.
She’s always telling me to tell you that you’re all welcome. Mind you we’d be like sardines in a tin in the shelter, but that
wouldn’t matter.’

‘No, luv, we’ll manage. We’re goin’ out ter Huyton Woods to sleep. Everyone’s goin’.’ She indicated the small groups of her
remaining neighbours, all sitting patiently in the roadway. Cat waved to the Abbotts.

‘There’s an American canteen lorry what comes ’round, from some place over there, the name’s plastered all over it.’

‘Charlotteville,’ Dora interrupted.

‘Aye, you’d know well enough wouldn’t yer! Yer do enough chattin’ up the driver! Al or Abe or wharrever ’e calls ’imself!
As if I ’aven’t gorrenough on me plate without ’er flashin’ ’er eyes at them Yanks! A few pair of stockin’s an’ she’s anyone’s!
If yer Da was ’ere, me girl—’

‘You mean you’re going out to Huyton to sleep?’ Cat interrupted. Huyton was a small, rural village on the vast estates of
the Earl of Derby.

‘It’s a damned sight safer than the city or what’s left of it! They pick us up about five an’ drive us out there in a lorry.
Then we gets a ’ot meal an’ a cuppa. It’s not that bad. It’s not cold an’ we’ve all got blankets. An’ it’s ’ealthier bein’
in the open. Them shelters breed consumption and lice. Yer can’t get nothin’ now ter shift the nits, they just shave all yer
’air off.’ She pointed to a glum, embarrassed Lizzie who was wearing a knitted pixie hood, even though it was warm.

‘They can keep their ’ands off my ’air!’ Dora stated emphatically.

‘Then yer mind who yer stick yer ’ead next to! Tharrall stop yer sneakin’ off when yer think I’m asleep!’

It was as though they were back in the kitchen of number eight instead of sitting in the road where the house used to be,
she thought. Nothing really seemed to stop the bickering.

‘But what about during the day?’

‘Oh, we’ll manage. The kids still ’ave lessons, in the church now. The school is a rest centre or at least it was yesterday.
Them two can go ter work, termorro.’ She nodded in the direction of Dora and Ethel. ‘As fer me, well I’ll just try ter keep
our few bits clean an’ decent, like everyone else does. Anyway, it’ll only be for a while, until Jerry gets fed up an’ goes
an’ blasts the daylights out of some other poor sods!’

Maisey’s optimism cheered her up. It was contagious, and she sat with them, occasionally joining other groups to ‘catch up
on the news’ until late in the afternoon. She hugged them all as one by one they boarded the lorries
that would take them to the comparative safety of Huyton Woods for the night.

‘I’ll come up and see you tomorrow!’ she shouted, waving as the lorries started up.

‘Don’t yer go worryin’ about us, Cat. Jerry’s not cum up against us scousers before, we’re a ’ard lot ter shift!’ She yelled
back.

She stood and waved until they were all out of sight.

By the end of that first week in May, 50,000 people were sleeping like the O’Dwyers, as night after night the relentless bombardment
went on. From Seaforth to the Husskison Dock the flames raged, in ships, warehouses, dockside sheds and in all the narrow
streets that were left. On the night of 8 May the New Brighton ferry the
Royal Daffodil II
was sunk at her moorings. The head post office, the Central and Bank Exchange, the Mersey dock buildings, Oceanic buildings,
India buildings, Georges Dock buildings and the Central Library had been destroyed. St Luke’s Church, at the top of Bold Street
and the Parish Church of St Nicholas at the Pierhead were only two of dozens of churches that lay in ruins.

At the end of that horrendous week the lone statue of Queen Victoria, seated in her dome monument at the top of Lord Street,
looked down on a radius of three-quarters of a mile of wasteland where not one single building remained standing.

Ships had been damaged, sunk and diverted, sheds, warehouses and their contents destroyed; dock communications interrupted;
gates, basins and quaysides struck;
cranes left as mangled, twisted lumps of metal. But the port struggled on and at the end of the month, when the enemy had
seemingly exhausted itself, the first convoy sailed.

They all went to see Joe and Eamon leave and it seemed that most of the city went, too. There was an atmosphere of grim defiance
and on the faces of the crowd there was pride. Despite everything the Port of Liverpool remained operational.

‘Eh, up, girl! Purrim down, yer don’t know where ’e’s been!’ A grinning docker called to her as she hugged Eamon.

‘I bloody well should do, he’s my brother!’ she laughed.

‘Oh, that’s alright then, I thought it was yer ’usband!’

In such a crowd there wasn’t much chance of a private goodbye she thought as Joe took her in his arms, but she clung to his
lips just the same. After the horrors of the past weeks she had drawn a little comfort from the fact that they had endured
it together. He had been safe, if anything could be considered safe. Now he was leaving her again. Leaving to face the silent,
unseen enemy and the merciless sea.

‘Promise me there won’t be any repetition of that night in the shelter?’

‘I’ll try! Oh, come back safe!’

He kissed her again. ‘Don’t worry I will! I’ve got you to come back to.’

She pulled off the tiger’s eye ring. ‘Take this! Take this to remind you.’

He kissed her again and she never wanted him to stop, locking her hands tightly behind his head, until at
the warning blast of the
Firefly
’s siren, he pulled them gently away. He pushed the ring on the only finger it would fit. His little finger.

‘I’ll buy you another one in Canada. A proper engagement ring!’ And with a final hug he turned and shouldered his way through
the crowd.

She clasped Marie’s hand tightly, her vision blurred by tears. ‘I don’t want an engagement ring! He can buy me a wedding ring
when he gets back!’

‘And I’ll be your bridesmaid,’ Marie answered with a trace of sadness as she returned the squeeze.

It wasn’t often that Joe and Eamon had time for conversation. At sea they seldom saw each other and when they did it was usually
just a hurried exchange. They had different messes, different watches and different jobs which kept them apart. Joe’s domain
was the hot, smelly, noisy engine room, in the bowels of the frigate. Eamon was a gunner, having shown an early aptitude and
a rare accuracy which he put down to his deadly aim with a catapult as a lad in the backstreets of Liverpool. He could always
hit a tin can, or more usually a ‘jigger rabbit’ from a fair distance, he had told his mates when he had been elevated to
his present position.

He didn’t envy Joe now, though he still looked up to him, as he had always done. Joe Calligan had been his boyhood hero. But
as they steamed through the cold, dark waters of the Atlantic, eyes always searching, ears always straining, he knew Joe’s
chances in the engine room were slim should they be hit. He’d seen it happen all too often. No, it was better to be on deck,
despite the
cold, the rain, the wind and often mountainous seas. The only time he felt uneasy was when he went below to sleep and he never
slept deeply. Exhausted though he often was, some sixth sense made him wake instantly, immediately alert, at any unusual sound.
Joe, on the other hand, could only hear the noise of the turbines, see only the boilers, pipes and gauges in the steamy gloom
of the engine room. No, better to be up top, even if it was huddled, cramped and often bitterly cold, in the gun turret.