‘By the time I was fit for active service again the war was over. Kids skit me when I walk past, but I’d rather have a limp and an army pension than what Nell’s man got. Life was cheap in that war. I was one of the lucky ones.’
‘Ar.’ Nell nodded, hooking a tear away with her knuckle. ‘Folks made a fuss at Dunkirk; said it was awful our army retreatin’ like they did, but if I’d been a feller I’d have been glad to get out of that country. No good to us, France isn’t!’
Seeing Nell’s trembling bottom lip, Tommy smiled, diving his hand into his jacket pocket, offering five cigarettes. ‘I stood in a queue for these! Thank God I don’t smoke. I was always a little runt, and folk said that smoking stunted your growth, see. I never growed over five feet, for all that! Go on, Nell. You’re welcome to them!’
Tippet’s Yard, Meg thought later as she washed dishes and scrubbed pans, was an airless, run-down slum that should have been knocked down years ago. Liverpool was a dump, but Liverpudlians were the salt of the earth, and people like little Limping Tommy and brash, buxom Nell made life worth living in Tippet’s Yard. You had to count your blessings, Ma always said, and that, Meg decided, was what she would try to do, because there were a lot of people worse off than she was!
Yet for all that, she knew that this city would never hold her; that somehow, some day, she would find Candlefold. And when she did, she would find Ma’s heaven; that special somewhere she must have yearned for, the night she walked out into that cold, mucky yard to die.
Candlefold. Place of dreams.
The first day of May had been like most other days. Ordinary. A postcard from Kip; Nell, who had seen the postman, demanding to know what he had pushed through the letter box; a fatless day, since Meg had used up her butter, lard and margarine, and would have to do without until rations were due again tomorrow. A boring day until a little after the nine o’clock news. Meg had carried out kitchen chairs, and she and Nell sat there, faces to the last of the evening sun, talking about the days when grocers’ shelves were piled high with food few could afford, and wasn’t it amazing that the minute unemployment dropped and people had money in their pockets for a change, They had rationed food!
‘Ssssh!’ All at once Meg tilted her head. ‘Listen …’
They heard no sound, yet there was no mistaking what was to be, because each had sensed the strange quiet that hung on the air before an alert sounded. People had come to recognize that silence: a stillness so complete they could sense it, taste it almost. It was like nothing else Meg knew; a void so all-embracing that it was as if the entire city waited with her, breath indrawn, for the stomach-turning wail.
The first siren sounded distantly and she whispered, ‘It is! It’s a raid, Nell!’
Her mouth had gone dry, fear iced through her. She ran into the kitchen, gathering up her handbag and Ma’s attaché case, throwing a coat over her shoulders, grabbing the woolly scarf that hung on the doorpeg. Then she turned the key in the lock and ran to the door of number 3, opening it without preamble.
‘Tommy! Be sharp about it!’
‘You two go on ahead!’ He hobbled across the room, lame leg swinging jerkily, gas mask over his arm.
‘We’re goin’ together!’ Nell slammed shut her front door. ‘There’s nuthin’ happenin’ yet. No hurry.’ It was a matter of principle that unless bombs were actually dropping, she walked to the shelter. Not for a big clock would she give bluddy Hitler the satisfaction of knowing how afraid she was; that every time the siren went she had an overwhelming need to pee. ‘Just poppin’ to the lavvy! Won’t be a tick!’
‘By the heck,’ said Tommy, as they hurried up Lyra Street towards St Joseph’s church, ‘that lot know when to come!’ He glared vindictively at a near-full moon rising low in the sky.
Father O’Flaherty stood at the church door, gathering in his flock. The crypt was deep and solid, and safe against anything save a direct hit. There were worse places to be when bombs were dropping than the crypt of St Joseph’s.
‘Evenin’, Father,’ Nell smiled. ‘God luv yer.’
‘Down ye go!’ None who lived in Tippet’s Yard were of the faith of Rome, yet they were always made welcome by the elderly priest.
‘Father.’ Tommy nodded, tipping his cap; Meg smiled her relief and thanks.
Already the crypt smelled of damp and body sweat, but it made no matter. They were safer than most, Meg thought thankfully, making for a corner seat, spreading her belongings either side of her, reserving places for Nell and Tommy.
A woman with three small children and a baby in her arms was helped down the twisting stone steps by an elderly nun; children, wakened from sleep, began to fret, only to be told to shurrup their whingeing, or big fat Goering would come and get them!
‘As quiet as the grave up there!’
The blackout curtain covering the door swished aside and Father O’Flaherty beamed reassuringly at all present, who smiled back, even though they knew it was only a matter of time before the bombs fell. Perhaps though, Tommy thought, it was all part of a war of nerves. Perhaps those bombers had flown in low up the river, just to make sure the sirens would send most of Liverpool to the shelters. After which, perversely, they turned south-east to drop their bombs on Manchester, instead. Them Krauts didn’t change.
‘Looks like they’re not coming.’ Nell’s whisper sounded loud in the strained, listening silence.
The flock turned, seeking out the optimist, warning her, unspeaking, not to tempt Fate.
The eyes of the pretty young nun found those of the priest, and she raised her eyebrows questioningly. Father O’Flaherty nodded, and she bent down to turn up the flame beneath the tea urn.
‘Soon be ready,’ she smiled, dropping a small calico bag in which tea had been carefully tied into the steaming water. ‘Dear sweet Lord, what was that?’
Accusing eyes turned once more to the tempter of Fate, then opened wide with fear as the company listened for the second bomb to fall, and the third, because bombs usually fell three at a time.
Indrawn breaths were let go noisily. The explosions were far enough away. Seemed like the docks were getting it, poor sods; the north-end docks, that was, and maybe too on the other side of the river, Birkenhead way. As long as they didn’t come any nearer it would be all right.
Feet shuffled; bottoms wriggled; the flock settled down to await the tea that would soon be passed round in thick, earthenware mugs. Mothers shifted sleeping babies to a more comfortable position; small, grubby thumbs slid into small, pink mouths; old men folded their arms and closed their eyes. Almost certainly the docks were the target, and the city centre. Again.
The all clear came with the dawn. It sounded high and steady; a promise that the skies above Liverpool were clear, the danger over. Now people could shuffle stiffly into the real world, get on with their lives as best they could; men wondering if there would be a tram to take them to a place of work which might not now be there, women to resume the task of looking after children, searching shops for off-the-ration food – if the bombers had left any shops standing, that was.
‘No damage up top that I can see!’ The priest’s booming voice filled the crypt. ‘They gave us a miss last night! Away to your homes now, and I’ll want volunteers for a bit of cleaning up down here after eight o’clock Mass!’
Heads lifted, shoulders straightened. No damage done to the streets around St Joseph’s. They still had homes to go to! Sad about the docks, mind, but a sup of tea was the first thing that came to mind, then washing away the stink of the crypt.
There was a brightening in the sky behind the crowd of warehouses at the