‘Hullo, dear. I have that number and I’ve booked a trunk call – is that all right?’
‘Bless you, of course it’s all right!’
‘Then if you’ve got a pencil and paper handy you’d better write it down, then fingers crossed it won’t take too long to get through.’
Lorna wrote, then whispered,
‘Thanks, Mrs B. We were just going to have a cup of tea.’
‘Then have one for me, will you? This switchboard’s going mad tonight. Thank heaven the post office is closed, that’s all I can say! Cheerio, now. Can’t stop!’
‘That’s the number of the pub.’ Lorna laid the scrap of paper on the table. ‘And Mrs Benson has booked the call already. She says the switchboard is busy tonight; maybe it’s the same all over. It’ll be all right, love. Try not to worry too much?’
‘No. I won’t. Bless you for being here, queen. I seem to have gone to pieces. Stupid, aren’t I?’
‘Of course you aren’t! And there’s the kettle. Sit down, Ness. Close your eyes and breathe in and out. I always deep breathe when I’m worried – and there you are! Phone! Go on then and answer it! It’ll be for you!’
Lorna smiled and stirred the tea in the pot. It was going to be all right. The call had come through quickly which only went to prove it was!
‘But why?’ Ness’s agitated voice came clearly from the hall. ‘But didn’t they say any more than that? Shall we try again, then?’
There was a pause, then Ness stood in the doorway, her face ashen, eyes brimming with tears.
‘Mrs Benson got a trunk line, but the Liverpool exchange said they couldn’t raise the pub; said the number was dead. Mrs B says she’ll keep trying, though. Oh, Lorna, what’s to do at Ruth Street? Has Mam been bombed?’ She sat at the table, head on hands, shoulders shaking.
‘Listen. Just because one phone number isn’t available, doesn’t mean your folks aren’t all right. Maybe there has been a bomb a long way off – one bomb can burst a water main and everybody for streets around has no water. And if the telephone cables have been damaged, even a mile away, it could –’
‘Listen! I’m goin’ home! Tonight! Now! And I don’t care what anybody says!’
‘No, Ness. By the time we can get you to York, the last train to Liverpool will probably have gone!’
‘I can try, can’t I? Maybe get as far as Manchester – pick up an overnight train?’
‘And what good is hanging about on a Manchester platform in the small hours going to do you? Drink your tea, why don’t you, then I’ll run you over to the hostel and we’ll tell them that Glebe Farm said it was all right for you to have time off. We’ll be on our way good and early in the morning. You’ll be in Liverpool by midday – bet you anything you like! And before you say what about my petrol, I can spare it – honest.’
‘But what about the letters and papers?’
‘The round won’t take five minutes! The GPO van from York delivers letters at the post office by six in the morning. The papers come early, too. I can have the lot done by seven if I shift myself.’ She laid an arm round the drooping shoulders. ‘I promise it’s going to be all right. Tomorrow at this time, you’ll be with your folks and wondering what you were worrying about.’
‘But what if the call comes while we’re out, Lorna?’
‘We’ll ask Mrs B if there’s been one when we get back, then try again.’ They could not, Lorna considered, spend all evening waiting for a call that might not come.
‘You’re a good sort.’ Ness lifted her cup in salute, a small uncertain smile tilting the corners of her mouth. ‘There’s more to you than a pretty face, isn’t there?’
And Lorna smiled, and lifted her own cup and said,
‘Come to think of it, I can be quite a bossy boots when I set my mind to it! And Ness – it will be all right. I promise!’
It was half past two when the train reached Lime Street station more than an hour late, yet Ness was never so relieved to see the place. Unswept, littered and crowded as most stations were these days, it was still good to hear the familiar Liverpool accent, know that just across the road she could get a tram that would take her to Ruth Street.
The ticket collector clipped her green travel warrant without saying a word or raising his head. Probably worried sick, just as she was, Ness thought.
The breeze that blew in from the Mersey brought with it not the usual river smell but a stink that was acrid and strange; the smell of bombing, was it? Of dust and debris and burning – and of death?
She cleared her mind of such thoughts. The tram was coming; green and brassy with a get-out-of-my-way air about it. Aggressive, sort of. The conductor clanged the bell, the driver swung his handle and they sailed past the soot-stained, sand-bagged bulk of St George’s Hall. Home soon.
Nothing changed, Ness thought. All right – so Liverpool had been bombed, but this brash and bawdy place was benevolent, too, and looked after its own as surely no other city on earth did. She was back, and soon she would know why there had been no answer to last night’s call; why her mother had not walked down the street to the telephone kiosk.
It struck her, all at once, that there might be no one at home, that Mam and Da and Nan might have upped sticks and gone over the water to Perce and Tizzy’s. On the other hand, they might all be lying unrescued beneath a pile of rubble.
She swallowed hard, recalling newspaper pictures of London’s blitz and men tearing at rubble with bare hands to rescue people entombed – oh, God! What a world!
She jumped off the tram, calling her thanks to the conductor, running towards Ruth Street and the Sefton Arms. And it had not been reduced to rubble. It stood there the same as ever. No broken windows, no damaged roofs. Lorna had been right. The docks had been the target. Ruth Street’s name had not been on any of those German bombs – not this time, at least.
‘Mam!’ she called. Her mother was there, putting out a milk bottle. ‘Oh, Mam, you’re all right!’
They ran towards each other, arms wide, and hugged and kissed and did a little jig on the pavement.
‘Well, it’s our Ness and don’t you look well, girl? Why didn’t you think to tell us you were coming?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story. It’ll keep. Put the kettle on, eh?’
Tomorrow at this time you’ll be wondering what you were worrying about, Lorna had said, and oh, my word, there was more to Lorna Hatherwood these days than met the eye. That haircut had done her the world of good!
‘Funny, innit, the way things work out,’ Ness said that night as they sat round the kitchen fire. ‘Yesterday they gave it out on the wireless that Liverpool had been bombed and today – here I am, and you’re all fine.’
‘You weren’t worried, girl?’
‘Mam, I was worried sick! And what’s to do with the Sefton Arms? We put a call in and the exchange told us that the line was dead – well, what would you have thought? And then I wondered why you hadn’t gone to the phone box to ring me. I tell you, if there’d been an overnight train, I’d have been on it! Were the phone lines damaged, or something?’
‘Nah!’ Nan put down her knitting. ‘That landlord should pay his phone bill a bit more reg’lar. Always gettin’ cut off, he is!’
‘Your nan’s right. More off than on, that phone at the Sefton Arms. Not to be relied on, Ness.’
‘But if there are any more raids, Mam, could you let me know you’re all right – nip down to the phone box? Oh, I