‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be up,’ Lottie said, beaming, her rounded cheeks spotted pink, ‘but I thought you might like this.’ She crossed the room to the other side of the bed so that she could put the tea down on the bedside table by the window but she didn’t get that far; all of a sudden there was a clatter and a bang and the bedroom door was thrust back on its hinges. Annie lifted her head in alarm, uncertain what had happened. For a moment she couldn’t see anybody as she struggled to sit up, only Lottie ineffectually trying to mop up the spilled tea from the satin eiderdown cover with her pocket handkerchief. Then Annie sighed with relief.
‘Gosh, darling, you gave Mummy such a fright,’ she said, realizing it was three-year-old Billy who had crashed into the room. His fair hair was standing up in spikes and he looked like he had just crawled out of bed.
‘Where’s Joanie?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t find her.’ He ran his hands in exasperation over his hair with the gesture of an adult and Annie couldn’t help smiling.
‘Have you lost her? Or is she hiding?’ Annie asked, humouring him.
‘She’s hiding, but where is she? Doesn’t she know she can’t escape?’ He threw open the wardrobe doors and the doors of the tallboy, not bothering to close them again. He even pulled out the dressing-table drawers and left them half on the floor. Then he knocked over the wicker chair, heedless of the clothes that had been neatly folded on the seat, and finally he bent down to peer under the bed, flinging Annie’s slippers and a pair of shoes out across the landing. And all the time he was shouting, ‘Where are you, silly sister? You’ll be sorry, Joanie Pony, if you don’t tell me where you are. And when Daddy comes home I’ll make him send you back to wherever it was you came from.’
Annie laughed when he said that. ‘You’re the silly Billy,’ she said fondly. ‘She is only two years old after all, and you do know, darling, that the whole point of hide-and-seek is for you to go and look for her? There’s not much point in her telling you where she is. Where’s the fun in that?’
One of the things Annie did worry about was how much her mother pandered to the children, especially Billy, unlike Annie who tried to be firm but fair. He was reaching an age when he would really benefit from a more disciplined hand. If she was honest, he needed his father.
Billy turned to Annie and stuck out his tongue, then he pulled a grotesque face aimed towards Lottie who was standing frozen near the window, still holding the cup and saucer. ‘I wonder what I’ve done to deserve that,’ Lottie sighed while Annie gave a little chuckle and smiled indulgently. Billy stared at her without smiling back, then suddenly said, ‘I want that tea, Mam,’ and made a lunge for the half-filled cup in Lottie’s hand.
Annie sighed. ‘How many times have I to tell you not to call me that, Billy? Remember what I said? It’s Mother or Mummy. Mam’s so common.’
Billy paid her no heed. It was as if she hadn’t spoken as he grabbed the cup and gulped down some of the remaining tea, spilling what was left over his short grey flannel trousers. Lottie made a tapping gesture to indicate he should replace the cup on the saucer but instead he threw it across the room where it hit the doorjamb and smashed into several pieces.
‘Oh darling, look what you’ve done. There was no need for that, you know,’ Annie said sympathetically. ‘Now poor Lottie is going to have to clean that up. If you’re thirsty, why don’t you go downstairs and ask Grandma if you can have a proper cup of tea, then you can sit down and drink it nicely. And if you’re very good she might even find a biscuit for you.’
‘No she won’t,’ Billy said scornfully, ‘because I’ve eaten them all.’ He scuffed his feet over the carpet as he walked towards the door. ‘And I didn’t let Joanie have any.’
‘Oh, and be a love before you go,’ Annie called after him. ‘Shut the wardrobe doors will you, for Mummy, please.’
Billy looked up and aimed a kick at the wardrobe before jumping over the shattered cup. Suddenly Joanie appeared on the landing from the direction of one of the bedrooms, but Billy just pushed her out of the way, almost knocking her down the stairs as he raced ahead of her shouting, ‘Grammy, I’m hungry. I want my tea and Joanie’s been naughty so she can’t have any. Mummy says so.’
Annie didn’t hear her mother’s reply, though she could hear the clanging of pots coming from the kitchen. She turned to Lottie apologetically. ‘Boys will be boys,’ she said. ‘He didn’t mean any harm. He just doesn’t know his own strength.’ And she laughed.
Lottie’s only response was a deep sigh. She was still holding the saucer that was intact but, ignoring the smashed china, she scooped up Joanie, who was sitting on the landing trying to pair up the stray shoes and slippers, and without a word carried her downstairs.
Annie shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, a wry smile on her lips. ‘Children!’ she clucked softly. ‘They can be such a tonic and a torture all at the same time. I really should be thankful for what I’ve got. I’m very lucky to have two healthy children living safely with me. All of us together in our own home.’ It put her in mind of what her mother had said about Mothering Sunday. She would make it her business to go to church on that day, but the Baptist church not the Mission. And she would make sure she said an extra special prayer of thanks, for she was truly blessed. Not everyone, particularly in Weatherfield, was so privileged.
Her thoughts turned for a moment to the unfortunate children who, for one reason or another, had been separated from their mothers by the war and she felt an unusual prickling sensation behind her eyes. She remembered those who had been sent away when the war had only just got underway. Some, she had heard, had even been sent as far away as Canada and Australia, but most had been evacuated to the English countryside which was deemed to be safer than the industrial cities. She had watched, distressed, from her own doorstep as large numbers of local children from Bessie Street School were rounded up like sheep. Each carried a small suitcase as if they were going on their holidays but she knew that wasn’t the case. They had name badges pinned to their coats and they looked lost and bewildered as they were marched off, hand in hand, by their teacher Ada Hayes. Annie would never have let her Billy go away like that, or Joanie. Who knew where they might have ended up? She’d heard some terrible tales and some of the children actually had to come back, their billets were so dreadful. And yet some of those who hadn’t sent their children away had undergone dreadful difficulties too, in different ways.
Yes, Annie sighed. She had much to be thankful for. Manchester had suffered terrible damage as a result of the bombing raids during the 1940 Christmas Blitz and some parts of Weatherfield had been particularly badly hit. Whole streets had been destroyed and some unfortunate families had been cruelly split apart, parents or children missing presumed dead, their homes destroyed, the remaining family members left in dire distress. Fortunately, most of Coronation Street had withstood the onslaught and many lives had been saved thanks to people diving into cellars like the one underneath the Rovers or the air-raid shelter below the Mission. But the Blitz was like a wake-up call to the residents who remained, a reminder of the serious implications of the country being at war. People realized they needed to pull together and the residents of Weatherfield wanted to get involved in any way they could.
Most of the young able-bodied men, including her own beloved Jack, had signed up for the forces as soon as war was declared. Even men like Elsie Tanner’s bully-boy husband, Arnold, had joined the navy before he needed to, before any serious battles were underway, even though it meant leaving his pregnant bride to manage as best she could. The local factories that had once been the financial centre to the cotton industry had switched their production skills to war work, employing all the local women who were now being conscripted to work. Instead of being at the heart of the cotton trade manufacturing the fine cotton goods they once had, they now produced uniforms, tank and gun parts and other much needed armaments and munitions.
At the same time, those men who