Vi closed her eyes. Mother of God, don’t let them get my house. They’ve taken my man and my job; let me keep my home.
The gate handle clicked sharply and she drew aside the lace curtain. A man crossed the yard and rattled the door knob.
‘Are y’there, Vi?’
‘Richie. Come in.’
Richie Daly had sailed down the Mersey in the same convoy as Gerry and now he was home. Vi’s heart contracted painfully then settled into a dull ache.
‘All right, then? Bearing up, are you?’
‘Just about.’ She didn’t like Richie Daly. A shifty-eyed little devil, and his wife always expecting.
‘I see they got Lewis’s, Vi.’
‘Yes. Two nights back.’ No need to remind her. She’d worked there, hadn’t she?
‘So how are you making out?’
‘I’ll manage. There’ll be other jobs. But what brought you, Richie?’
She knew why he had come and what he would tell her, and she didn’t want to hear it. Yet still she asked for news of the Emma Bates.
‘Well, bein’ as how I was there, like.’ He drew out a chair and settled his elbows on the table. ‘Bein’ as how I saw what happened that night …’
‘Yes?’ She sucked in her breath, angrily, noisily.
‘Well, old Gerry didn’t suffer, Vi. Be sure of that. The Emma was just astern of us in the convoy and keepin’ station fine, even though she was a coal-burner.’
‘She’d keep station all right, with Gerry shovellin’.’
‘Yes.’ He stared fixedly down. ‘Well, one minute the old tub was there and the next –’ He slammed a fist into the palm of his hand. ‘They was carryin’ ammunition, see. They wouldn’t know a thing, any of them. Commodore didn’t even stop to look for survivors, so don’t worry yourself none.’
But she did worry and she needed to know every last detail.
‘Where did it happen?’
‘Two days out from Halifax. Canadian destroyer escort had just left us.’
‘But I thought he was going to Alexandria.’
‘Naw. The Emma left Liverpool without cargo; took RAF bods to Canada then loaded up with cordite and shells for the return trip. It was a clear night. We was all sittin’ targets. Always at night those bastards do it. It’s a dirty way of fightin’, but it was quick for old Gerry.’
‘Yes,’ she said dully. ‘Quick.’
‘Ah, well.’ He got to his feet, pushing the chair legs against the floor tiles with a grating that set her teeth on edge. ‘I’ll be goin’.’
‘It was good of you to come, Richie.’
Liar. You hate him for coming because he’s told you that Gerry isn’t just missing, but dead.
‘’s all right. Just thought you’d rest a bit easier if you knew he didn’t suffer none. Well – I suppose I’d better get goin’…’
That’s right. Shove off. I don’t want you here. It’s Gerry I want. It’s him should’ve been coming home tonight.
‘Hey, listen.’ He turned, foot in door. ‘What about a drink, eh?’ He reached out, placing a hand on either shoulder, pulling her nearer. ‘I’ll be in the Tarleton about nine; will I see you, Vi?’
‘No, you’ll not.’ She shrugged away his hands with an exaggerated gesture. ‘At nine o’clock we’ll all be in the shelter, like as not. And won’t your wife be needing a hand when the sirens go? Getting near her time again, isn’t she?’
‘Aw, don’t worry about Lil. It’s you I’m thinking about, Vi. A well-set-up woman like yourself must be – you know …’ He was grinning. A dirty little grin.
‘No, I don’t know. Must be what?’
He was too stupid to catch the contempt in her voice or heed the warning that narrowed her eyes.
‘Well, missin’ it, like. Y’know. A bit of the other.’
‘Oh, I see. And you’re offerin’…?’
‘That’s right.’ His eyes brightened and he reached for her again, a hand trailing her breasts. ‘I’ve been at sea a long time. Come on upstairs, Vi.’
He pressed nearer and she felt the hardening in his loins. There were small ginger hairs on his chin and his groping mouth stank of beer. Disgust shivered through her, and stepping out of the reach of his hands she hissed, ‘Get out of my house, you mucky little sod! Bloody get out, or I’ll swing for yer!’
The sepia vase hurtled across the room and she heard the crash as it shattered against the tiles, heard the slamming of the door and running footsteps. Then the red mists cleared and she sank to her knees, picking up the pieces, moaning softly. Gerry’s mam, God rest her, had given her that vase. ‘Maybe you can find a use for it, girl.’
The tears came then; great gasping sobs she had been unwilling and unable to cry since the day of the letter. They came from the deeps of her heart and rose to a wail of anguish.
‘Gerry lad, why, why? You said you’d come home. You promised.’
She knelt there long after the sobs were spent, hugging herself tightly, eyes closed. The floor was hard and cold and her knees throbbed with pain, but still she crouched there. Gerry was dead and she was alive. Sore knees were a small part of her penance.
Stiffly, reluctantly, she rose to her feet and began to sweep up the litter of broken china. She had never liked that vase. Probably Ma McKeown hadn’t liked it either.
‘Thanks, Ma.’ A small, sad smile lifted the corners of Vi’s mouth. ‘I found a use for it.’
The smile flickered and faded. Since the arrival of the letter a coldness had grown inside her, and a pain in her throat that wasn’t really a pain but a hard, tight ball of anger. It got in the way when she had tried to cry yet it allowed no room for self-pity. All her feelings had been for Gerry, with the coal-pitted hands, who had never harmed a soul. Gerry, with the bitty hair, whose right foot turned in when he walked. Gerry, who had loved her.
Sighing, she lifted the dustbin lid and watched the brown china pieces slip from the shovel, then raised her eyes to the May sky. It was hard to believe that very soon that innocent sky could throb with the sounds of death. Liverpool was taking a beating, and rumours were free for the asking on every street corner and in every food queue. There had been rioting down by the docks, some said, but no one knew exactly where; and Mrs Norris swore they were throwing the dead into mass graves, and half of them good Catholics without the last rites.
Vi wished she could fire a gun and shoot down those bombers if only for what they had done to Gerry, but it was easy to be brave in this small, precious house when the sun still shone in the evening sky and a west wind blew away the stench of bombing and burning and broken bodies. It was a different matter when the sirens wailed and she hurried, dry-mouthed, into the clammy cold of St Joseph’s crypt. Fear came easily then, even though it was the deepest and safest shelter for streets around. And when the all clear sounded, even though the realization that she had survived yet another night sent relief singing through her, there was the agony of wondering what she would find when she returned to Lyra Street. Mary had told her not to be a fool, to come to her house and get a decent night’s sleep. Mary lived in Ormskirk, and so far they had been lucky there. But Vi needed