‘I will. But why should it happen to Meg?’ Tommy frowned. ‘History doesn’t repeat itself, don’t they say?’
‘You’re thinking about lightning not striking twice in the same place, Tommy Todd! History does repeat itself, or why has bluddy Hitler started another war?’
‘Give the girl credit! She knows right from wrong!’
‘So did her mother, and much good it did her! And it isn’t Meg I don’t trust, it’s all them fellers, out for what they can get ’cause there’s a war on! But I suppose she’ll have to make her own mistakes. Only way she’ll learn, come to think of it!’
‘So who says Meg’s going to end up in trouble? A nasty tongue you’ve got at times, Nell Shaw!’
So Nell said if that was what he thought she wouldn’t say another word on the subject; said it indignantly, then closed her mouth into a tight round button and glared across the table, narrow-eyed.
‘Not one more word!’ she hissed.
Kip’s letter bore no address, so he was able to write, without risking the censor’s scissors, that by the time Meg got it he would have reached you-know-where and was looking forward to a few days ashore.… And by the way. I’ll be posting you a parcel. Fingers crossed that it won’t go to the bottom.
The carefully packed parcel had indeed arrived, Meg thought uneasily, and before she went back to Candlefold she must write him a long chatty letter, post it at once so there was a chance it would be waiting at Panama on the way home. But first she took the postcard, a pretty view of Nether Barton’s only street, showing the post office, the pub and the church next to it, and a row of cottages. On the back she wrote her new address, that all was well and that a letter followed. Then she took it at once to the post office, asking for an airmail sticker and a sixpenny stamp. ‘There now!’ Feeling a little less guilty, she slid it into the pillar box.
‘Just been to post one to Kip,’ she said to Nell on her return. ‘Thought you’d like to know. And I’ll send him another before I go back. There’s a tin of meat in the parcel; would you and Tommy like to come to supper tonight? And Kip sent these for you.’
As if it were a peace offering, she passed a packet of cigarettes to the older woman.
‘Ar. Tell him thanks a lot when you write back. He’s a good lad, Meg, and you’ll have to go a long way to find better. But it’s none of my business and you’re old enough to know your own mind. And yes, ta, I’ll come to supper.’
The smile was back on Nell’s face. All was well again in Tippet’s Yard.
The house swept and aired, Meg made for the Ministry of Food office in Scotland Road. Its windows were still boarded up, the inside gloomy.
‘Change of address, please.’ When her turn came, Meg offered her ration book and identity card. ‘And where do I go for my clothing coupons?’
‘Board of Trade office, four doors down.’ The overworked clerk had no time to chat.
‘Thanks.’ Meg felt relief that her Tippet’s Yard address was now secret beneath a white sticky label; that another part of her past had been officially hidden. Half an hour later her identity card had been changed and Clothing coupons issued written on the front cover of her ration book, together with a Board of Trade stamp and a scribbled initial.
By the time she had queued for potatoes and bought a cabbage Mr Potter would have been ashamed to offer, it was time to put the kettle on. Kip’s parcel had included a packet of tea, and tomorrow she really would write a letter, telling him about Polly and Mrs John, and how she was learning the names of flowers and to recognize a thrush and a blackbird, and that soon she would be helping with the fruit picking.
But first she would prepare supper; peel potatoes and do what she could with the sickly cabbage. And since Kip had sent biscuits – real, pre-war chocolate biscuits the likes of which were only a memory now – she would arrange them daintily on a plate instead of a pudding. Such a treat they would be, and she, Nell and Tommy would eat the lot and toast the sender’s health in a cup of strong Billy tea from Australia!
Meg wished she could be in love with Kip – really in love – but he wasn’t the one and she hoped he hadn’t wasted his money on a ring when he got to Sydney, because that was what it would be. A waste.
‘Sorry, Kip,’ she whispered, over the potatoes. ‘Take care of yourself, eh?’
As the train pulled shuddering and heaving out of the station, Meg could feel only relief at leaving Liverpool behind her. Yet she still felt guilty at being so lucky when most other Liverpool folk, many of whom still had family missing, even yet, had no choice but to remain amongst the devastation. And guilty about the killing and injuries, and about the baby covered with rubble dust. She would never forget the little one, nor forgive either. She felt guilty, too, about Kip, who sent her letters and food parcels, and who would hope for letters from her at ports of call.
Mind, she had written the letter, telling him about her new job and her bedroom window that looked out onto such a view that it brought tears to her eyes; told him about the hens and the Jersey cow, and that she thought about him often and remembered him every night in her prayers, both of which were downright lies.
Polly prayed every night for Davie and Mark and for all servicemen and women – ours, of course – and a speedy end to the war. Took a bit of understanding, come to think of it, since German women would be praying for much the same thing, so if there really was a God, how did He know which side to listen to? Us, or them? Tossed a penny, did He?
They were nearing the outskirts of Liverpool now, and Meg knew they were passing through Aintree, even though station names had been removed; part of a grand scheme to bewilder invading parachutists by not providing any clues as to where they had dropped!
Aintree, where the most famous horserace in the world was run, and rich men in top hats, with their wives dressed up to the nines, came from all over the world with their horses and jockeys and grooms, and had a real good time afterwards at the luxurious Adelphi Hotel.
She pulled her thoughts back to Kip, because he was the one she felt most guilty about. Mind, she hadn’t asked for the parcels he’d sent, though she had been glad enough to get them. Nor was it her fault that he liked her a lot whilst she could only feel sisterly affection. It made her think of Amy, Kip’s sister who lived in Lyra Street. Meg had had the good sense to visit her so she was able to tell Kip he must not worry about her and her children, and that there had been no more bombing.
Thank you for the parcel. Nell and Tommy came to supper to share my luck and have a real tuck in, she had written, and Nell says thanks a lot for the ciggies and sends her best regards, as does Tommy.
Take care of yourself. She had ended the letter tongue in cheek: I think about you every night before I go to sleep. With love and kisses …
She had placed a lipsticky kiss beside her name, thinking that love and kisses was the least she could do for a parcel not only containing food, but a tablet of soap, a jar of cold cream and a carefully wrapped bottle of shampoo, all of which were in very short supply and could only be got by being in the right place at the right time, then standing in a queue!
Conscience almost cleared, she had propped the airmail envelope beside the mantel clock, then set the kettle to boil for hot water in which to wash. She missed the bathroom at Candlefold, but would make up for the all-over wash by using the sweet-smelling soap. She had sniffed it greedily, for toilet soap – when you were lucky enough to get it – had long ago ceased to be scented. It made her think enviously of a country where the sun almost always shone, where there were warm beaches and scented soap in the shops and no blackout.
And oh, damn the war and the stupid men who had let it happen again! And damn Hitler, who was probably sniggering into his