For young Flora Cooke the misery of the Second World War and the hardship it brings is both real and unrelenting. When her husband Tom is reported missing, presumed dead, Flora is left to raise her family alone amidst the ruins of war-torn Liverpool.
As she struggles to come to terms with the tragic news, Flora attracts the attention of two very different men. One offers security whilst the other offers the prospect of a new life in California. Both promise her love.
But it takes another great tragedy before Flora finally listens to the promptings of her heart and seizes a second chance at the happiness that has for so long eluded her.
June Francis is the author of several sagas, including A Mother’s Duty and Mersey Girl. She lives in Liverpool and is married with three sons.
www.junefrancis.com
A Mother’s Duty
A Daughter’s Choice
For the Sake of the Children
Lily’s War
Mersey Girl
Flora Cooke had been dreaming again. She woke with a start, forcing her eyelids up. Dawn was pearling the bedroom wall, and for a moment she lay stiff with anxiety before making the effort to reach for the man who lay beside her.
Waking brought relief flowing to all her limbs, easing her fear. ‘Tom,’ she whispered, placing her arm across his naked chest. He stirred but made no answer. ‘Tom!’ Her fingers tugged one of the golden hairs on his chest.
‘Watch it, Flo,’ he murmured sleepily, slapping her hand. ‘Or I’ll do the same to you but harder.’
‘I don’t have curls on my chest.’ There was a hint of laughter in her voice as she leaned over him, and her bare breasts brushed his chest tantalisingly before she took his face between her palms, and kissed him full on the mouth.
His arms wrapped round her. ‘You should eat more crusts for curls,’ he said softly, the moment he had breath. ‘Then after the war we could make our fortune. I could paint you and exhibit your portrait all over Lancashire. Roll up, roll up! Come and see the carroty-haired double-breasted beauty.’
Her pale brow creased. ‘My hair’s not carroty. But I like the idea of making a fortune. Maybe then we could have that house I dream about.’
‘You and your dreams,’ he scoffed. ‘They’ll never get you anywhere, Flo. Our class has to work for everything.’
‘Don’t be so miserable. You should have more faith.’ She stretched herself out on him and buffeted his chin with her head. ‘You didn’t really mean that about painting me half naked and selling my picture?’ Her tone was serious. ‘I don’t mind you looking at me, Tom, but other men – no.’
‘If it was going to make us a fortune, I would,’ he teased. ‘Now there’s my dream, Flo – painting. It beats soldiering or making door frames and windows for folk. But as for you, girl, you really have no shame. Look at the way you’re behaving now – you hussy.’ He caught her by the hair, dragging her head back so that he could the better nuzzle her breasts.
‘What’s the shame in it when we’re man and wife?’ she demanded. ‘Doesn’t it say in the Bible that a man leaves his mother and father to cleave to his wife? I’m making sure that you’re happy with me. Then you’re not likely to go seeking elsewhere for home comforts.’ She nudged his head with her elbow and he looked up into her hazel eyes. ‘I met this girl and her job was emptying the pockets of the uniforms sent back home to be cleaned. She said it was an eye opener to what soldiers got up to when away from home. So you do know what I mean? I’m making sure you don’t roam.’
He laughed. ‘So that’s your recipe for any man who might want to stray.’
‘I believe if you love a man, then you make sure he’s well fed and well bedded – that’s it almost in a nutshell.’ She wriggled, brushing her stomach against his, and he caught his breath. She laughed, feeling the power swell in her. Then tears sparkled on her dark red lashes. ‘It was you who told me they were the important things when we first got married. I was an innocent,’ she whispered huskily. ‘But it hasn’t been easy, what with the war. Three years – that’s all we had really, before you were called up. So now we have to make the most of our time together. But maybe after the war – you may scoff, Tom – then perhaps my recipe and my dream of us all being in that house will work together for us. Happy ever after we’ll be.’
‘You read too many books,’ he muttered, a flame of desire igniting the depths of his brown eyes. ‘Forget your dreams and think of right now!’ He pulled her down on him, kissing her forcibly until her soft lips parted, and his tongue probed the sweetness of her mouth.
She responded enthusiastically, casting all cares aside as she offered herself unreservedly to him. Even after eight years of marriage she found him exciting, and desire soared.
They rolled over and he entered her, thrusting hard so that she gasped. Sometimes he was too rough but she coped and never complained. He moved slowly and she knew that he wanted to prolong the pleasure. It could be the last time for who knew how long? But his urgent need demanded instant gratification. Their bodies erupted into frenzied activity that had the rhythm of life in its beat. They were one giant heart pumping energy and pleasure. No other man had ever known her, and since girlhood she had willingly been his slave. She muffled a scream of delight against his shoulder, biting his flesh as he sent warm currents of pleasure through her.
He rubbed his cheek against hers. ‘Flora Dora, you’re a wanton.’
She was hurt. ‘No, I’m not. You taught me to enjoy it.’ And pulling his tawny head on to her breast, she said, ‘I love you.’ The words were only a thread of sound because tears were near. Soon they would part – him to his south coast camp and her home to Liverpool. She did not know how she was going to bear saying goodbye. In truth she decided that she would not. ‘Tarrah!’ or ‘Cheerio!’ would be better. They did not have the final feeling of a goodbye. She swallowed to ease her throat. ‘When will I see you again?’
‘I don’t know,’ he responded tersely, before kissing her breast. He lifted his head and gazed into her face. ‘Don’t start getting all maudlin on me, Flo. I’m hungry. Let’s go and see what this place has in the way of breakfast.’
‘If that’s what you want.’ She would have liked to have lain longer with him in her arms, but now she just stared at him, determined to impress on her memory every nuance of his countenance – the brown eyes fringed with golden lashes, the square, slightly bristly jaw; the aquiline nose which often gave a haughty cast to his face when he was vexed. Then she would have to coax and tease him until he was in a good mood again. She seldom failed.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘What are you thinking, staring at me like that?’ he demanded, stretching and sticking one hardened foot out of the blankets. ‘You’d think I was a stranger.’
‘I was thinking how glad I’ll be when the war is over,’ she murmured, not wanting, or even knowing how, to tell him that she was absorbing the way he looked in the flesh. Her dream had frightened her, and a photograph, posed and too often wooden-faced, was not the same to remember someone by. She felt as if a hand squeezed her heart. How she hated the war! The uncertainty and the fearing to hope that all would come right in the end.
‘Perhaps it won’t be as good when we’re sleeping together every night.’ His eyes scanned her rosy oval face as he reached for the cigarettes on the little table by the side of the bed. ‘It wasn’t always. At least this way we never get fed up of each other.’
Anxiety darkened her eyes, and she sat up abruptly. ‘What a thing to say, Tom. I was happy doing whatever you wanted. Were you getting tired of me before the war?’
He made her wait for his answer as he lit up and exhaled his breath in a puff of smoke. ‘Not that I remember. But who knows? If the war hadn’t come …’ He grinned as she opened her mouth, her face expressing her pained indignation. ‘Come on, girl, you know I still fancy you.’ He kissed her bare shoulder. ‘I’ve just made you happy, haven’t I, you little whore?’
Her mouth drooped. ‘Don’t call me that, Tom. I’m your wife!’
He moved his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. A joke because you’re always so eager. Now shall we get up and have breakfast? Then it’s heigh ho, back to messing about in boats I have to go.’
‘Boats?’ She leaned over to pick up her frock from the floor. Chill fear clutched her heart again. Not far away was the English Channel, and the other side of that – France and Hitler’s soldiers.
‘Don’t be worrying.’ He sat back against the headboard, watching her graceful movements as she dressed. No underwear, only a green and white flower-patterned old cotton frock. He hoped that she did have some knickers somewhere to put on later. He knew she knew he liked her going without when she was with him, and she had almost always been amenable – in the beginning she had been shy about stripping off, but he had soon cured her of that. He had told her he loved her body and she had gradually lost all embarrassment. She looked quite lovely this morning, with the flush on her cheeks and her shoulder-length copper-coloured hair in a tangle. He would have liked to have taken her again, but there was no time if they were to eat. ‘Tell me about the kids.’ Tom inhaled luxuriously. ‘How’s our George behaving himself?’
‘The same as usual,’ she murmured, beginning to brush her hair. ‘But he’s too much like you. A mad Alec! He never seems to see danger.’
‘You see enough of it for all of us.’ He added lazily, ‘Stop worrying, Flo. It might never happen.’
‘But then again it might,’ she said quietly, her hands trembling. Her dream was with her again. ‘He plays soldiers or football most of the time. Soldiers! Tom, you’ve no idea what he gets up to playing war games.’ Her voice was brittle.
‘He’s a lad and it’s war time, so he’s bound to play and pretend. Don’t we all pretend at times?’ he muttered tersely, apprehension tightening his stomach.
‘So you think it’s okay to collect shrapnel and shells, and lob them at each other over broken-down walls, pretending to kill each other? I get scared. He’s only seven, and he’s always in and out of bombed houses. I wish you were able to speak to him, love,’ she said earnestly. ‘Or write him a letter even, telling him it’s dangerous. He’d listen to you.’
‘You reckon? He hardly knows me.’ A stream of smoke issued from his nostrils. ‘Maybe I’ll write. Is anything else bothering you?’ he murmured absently. ‘Are you managing on your allowance? I know it’s not much.’
‘I’m managing,’ she said quickly, determined not to bother him with the difficulties that wives with young children faced every day. The one pound, two shillings and five pence army pay did not go far, and she had considered finding a part-time job. She had Rosie’s name on a nursery waiting list, but it could be some time before she heard anything about that. Her father had lent her the money to come south, but she would have to pay him back – even if it was only a couple of coppers a week. She had asked him about looking after Rosie for a couple of hours a day, but he had said that she was too much of handful. She looked at her husband. ‘Rosie doesn’t know you at all.’
‘I know.’ He got out of bed and went to wash in the china flower-sprigged basin on the stand in the corner. ‘That’s one of the annoying things about army life. I’ve got a daughter I’ve only seen once.’ He pulled a face as he began to wash. ‘I’ll write her a letter too if you like. “To my darling daughter – are you as gorgeous as your mam?”’
‘I could read it to her,’ she said pensively, brushing her hair. Then she added shyly, ‘Do you really think I’m gorgeous?’
‘Would I say it if I didn’t mean it?’ He glanced at her, soapy hands resting on his hips. ‘If I had to toss a coin between you and your sister, who would I want to come up heads?’
She smiled. ‘You’re teasing me. Our Hilda is lovely, and you could have had her. I couldn’t believe my luck when she went out with Jimmy Martin, and you asked me out. Although her and Jimmy didn’t last long. We’ve lasted, haven’t we? We still love each other.’
His eyes flickered over her face, before dropping. ‘Too true. If I’d stuck with your Hilda, it wouldn’t have been like it is with us. She can’t be trusted.’ He began to lather his inner thighs. ‘How long since last you saw her? I hope she doesn’t come bothering you again.’
‘A couple of years – she took the baby with her after a row with Father. I do worry about her sometimes.’
He gave a sharp laugh. ‘You don’t have to worry about your Hilda. She’ll find somebody else to get round. She’s a conniving bitch.’
‘Tom!’ There was almost a rebuke in her voice. ‘She’s my sister, and if she ever needs me I’ve got to be there. Aunt Beattie always preached that families should help each other. She looked after us when Mam died and Father was at sea. Hilda was all I had then. We slept together, ate together, even played together sometimes – remember?’
‘She always thought you a nuisance, tagging on behind the gang. You and some of the other young ones.’ He laughed. ‘Old days, Flo. Times change. People change. Now shut up about your Hilda.’
She fell silent, watching him pull on his khaki shirt, hoping that she had not annoyed him. She hated being out of friends. Going over to him, she wrapped her arms round his waist. ‘I love you. I wish you didn’t have to go.’
He paused in the act of buttoning. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said impatiently. ‘I have to. Besides we just might have Jerry on the run soon, and then I’ll be home by Christmas.’
‘I’ve heard something like that before.’ A trickle of apprehension turned her legs weak. ‘Have you heard anything?’
He shrugged. ‘The big nobs are always going on about a Second Front. But don’t you start worrying about me. I’ve come through so far, haven’t I?’
‘Yes.’ Her throat constricted, and she rested her cheek against his back. ‘Don’t take chances, Tom. I know what you’re like – you don’t think of the consequences. Don’t play the hero.’
‘Who, me?’ He laughed. ‘Don’t be stupid. I’ll keep my head down.’
‘Good.’ She didn’t believe him, remembering his daredevilry when they were younger. He had always been a ring leader, daring the other boys into doing all sorts of dangerous tricks. ‘Do be careful.’ Her eyes pleaded with him through the round wooden-framed mirror.
He pulled away from her, a scowl on his face. ‘Don’t go on, Flo! You’ll have me nervous.’
She smiled. ‘You don’t have a nerve in your body. I’ve never seen you scared of anything.’
He did not smile back. ‘Shut up, Flo. And get a move on if I’m going to the station with you.’
‘Don’t be cross.’ Her expressive hazel eyes clouded. ‘Perhaps it would be better to say our farewells here. I hate the waiting about until the last second. Then we wave and wave as the train puffs and puffs. It drags out the pain and I hate it.’
‘God, Flo!’ he cried angrily. ‘Don’t go on, or I won’t come to the station with you.’
‘Oh no! Come!’ She reached for his hands and clung to them. ‘But just one long kiss and a tarrah – then go.’
‘A tarrah, girl! How Liverpudlian.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘Say hello to the Liver Bird for me. Although I’m only half Scouse, I’ve a feeling sometimes for the sight of the thing.’
‘A home feeling,’ she said huskily, her throat tight with tears as she went into his arms and hugged him. They kissed and went down to breakfast.
The summer day started well. It was a perfect morning of bright sun and polished blue sky. The pigeons cooed gently beneath the eaves of the terraced house, and the nasturtiums in the windowboxes in the backyard put forth orange and yellow flowers. There was lamb’s liver at the butcher’s, and Flora had enough money and coupons. For once Rosie, now three, was not screaming after her brother George, who had gone out to play, but instead laughing at the antics of the cat chasing a mouse.
Then the mouse scrabbled up the tablecloth with the cat in blazing pursuit, and the sugar basin was sent flying.
‘You stupid moggy,’ yelled Flora, daring to put a foot on the floor as she moved Rosie off her knee and on to the chair. Now the cat had the mouse pinned beneath his paw. Flora made a swipe at it but the cat only stared at her balefully, its ginger and black tail lashing furiously.
Flora decided to ignore it and turned instead to stare at the mixture of glass and sugar on the rag rug. The sugar was a whole week’s ration. She could have wept. Perhaps it might not have seemed such a tragedy if she had not been reading over Tom’s letter that morning. But then everything seemed too much to cope with since the invasion of Europe had begun a few weeks ago. What lay ahead for Tom? Her nerves were taut with the anticipation of bad news.
She went and found the brush to sweep up the mess. Rosie was kneeling up on the chair, tilting it dangerously backwards so that she could watch the cat toying with its prey behind it.
‘Be careful!’ exclaimed Flora, steadying the chair and glancing behind it. Why couldn’t the cat just kill the mouse? she thought savagely. One swift blow and oblivion. Or what? Was there a heaven for dead mice? She pulled a face, wondering why she should be worrying about a mouse when there was so much else to be concerned about. Tom! Money! Tom!
On her knees, she realised that brushing was not going to work, and had to lift the heavy rag rug and take it outside to tip the mess in the bin. That was still not enough and she had to hang the rug over the line and brush it until there was a fine layer of dust adhering to her sweaty face. She had just got sorted out when George came in. There was a tear six inches long in his grey flannel shorts and several bleeding grazes down his filthy legs. She fought to control her temper, asking unsteadily: ‘What have you been up to?’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing much.’
‘Nothing, eh?’ Her expression hardened and she forced him to strip off and stand in the stone sink in the back kitchen. With the threat of no jam on his bread hanging over him, he submitted to having the blood and muck scrubbed off him. They were both near to tears by the time he was clean.
While Flora mended his trousers, George sat in front of the empty fireplace with a piece of sheeting wrapped round his middle. Then a thunderous wielding of the knocker sounded on the front door. She went to answer, not really in the mood for battle.
‘I believe this is your George’s,’ accused Mrs Murphy, flourishing a football. She was the big Irish woman from three doors up, with a bosom like a bolster. She had six daughters and a small husband, known as Little Paddy, who had once been a jockey. They had moved into the street only a couple of years ago after being bombed out.
‘Yes, it’s my son’s,’ said Flora brightly, taking her by surprise by seizing it quickly and back-kicking it up the lobby. She folded her arms defensively across her breasts. ‘What’s your complaint?’
Carmel Murphy shook her head, almost sorrowfully it seemed. ‘He’s been on me lavatory roof watching our Kat’leen and Mary treading the blankets in the bath in their knickers. Not nice at all, I say, Mrs Cooke. You never know where these things may lead.’
Flora sighed heavily. ‘I don’t believe he thinks girls are up to much yet.’
‘They start young these days. It’s the war! And the bad example her next door sets. Her and her Yanks!’ She wriggled broad shoulders and leaned against the wall with all the appearance of being ready for a good gossip, but Flora was not in the mood.
‘I don’t think it’s got to that stage with George, surely,’ she said blandly. ‘I’ll tell him, though, that he’s not even to speak to your girls – if you’ll stop them frolicking half naked, polluting young boys’ thoughts.’
Mrs Murphy straightened up hurriedly. ‘Now don’t be taking offence, luv. We don’t have to go as far as that. But I don’t like him seeing them in their knickers, and that’s the truth.’
‘All right,’ said Flora politely. ‘We won’t fall out over it. Good day to you, Mrs Murphy.’ She closed the door and marched up the lobby to confront her son.
‘What have you been doing, ogling young girls in baths?’
‘They had their knickers on.’ George rubbed his cheek on the sheeting and stared at her with Tom’s eyes. ‘They asked me to get in with them. But I heard her coming and moved quick. That’s how I ripped me kecks – clambering down her back door.’
‘Well, no more of it.’ The smallest of smiles lifted her mouth. ‘I don’t know what to do with you sometimes, George Cooke. If your father was here –’
‘But he isn’t.’ George smiled. ‘He’s killing the Jerries.’ He swept his arm round and made a noise like a machine gun. Rosie joined in, and Flora put her hands over her ears. ‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ she yelled. Last night her dream had come to her again and left her feeling uneasy. ‘I hate the noise of gunfire.’
‘It’s only a game, Mam.’ George got up and dragged at her arm, only to have to reach down hurriedly for the sheeting. ‘Let’s go to Grandad’s. He might have some pigeon eggs for us.’
‘He’ll probably make us pay for them, the way he’s been lately.’
George grinned. ‘You should stand up to him, Mam. He treats you like a little girl.’
She smiled. ‘I think I still am to him. He’s as bossy as ever he used to be. It’s all those years on the sailing ships. He’s had a tough life, your grandad, and he was always hellbent on making it tough for me and our Hilda when he was home. I got into the habit of saying nothing – sitting in a corner reading books that your great aunt Beattie lent me. That way he didn’t notice me as much. But our Hilda! They used to go at it hammer and tongs. But we’ll go and see him. The walk’ll tire Rosie out. Now put them on.’ She threw his pants at him.
He was dressing when the knocker sounded again. With an exaggerated sigh she went to answer its summons.
A telegraph boy stood before her, and immediately her heart leapt suffocatingly into her throat. He held out an envelope. ‘Here ye’rrah, missus.’ She took the flimsy offering and did not see him ride off speedily on his bicycle. Her trembling fingers tore the envelope open and her eyes fixed on the words in front of her.
‘We regret to inform you that soldier’ … the number blurred as she read the rest … ‘is missing presumed dead.’ An icy blast of despair seemed to deprive her of all movement. Only her brain still functioned, repeating the words frantically, hammering them into her mind. ‘It’s a mistake,’ she whispered, addressing the shining blue sky. ‘You wouldn’t let him die when I’ve prayed and prayed for him to be kept safe.’ Her voice gained strength. ‘He’s not dead,’ she yelled angrily.
George came flying up the lobby, buttoning his pants, and the door to the next house opened slowly. ‘What’s up, Mam?’ He clutched her arm, and with his other hand plucked the telegram from her shaking fingers. He read it carefully. ‘It says me dad’s presumed dead,’ he cried in an unbelieving voice. ‘It’s written here.’
‘Bad news is it, luv?’ Mrs Bryce, with her jet black hair in curlers beneath a green turban, walked slowly towards her. ‘It’s hard to take these things in. A luv’ly man, yer husband. But they don’t send telegrams if they think they’re making a mistake.’ She put a hand on Flora’s shoulder, but she rounded on her neighbour angrily.
‘Well, this time they have. It’s a mistake, I tell you, and I’m going to make them realise it as well.’ Her eyes were sparkling with tears.
‘You do that, luv.’ Mrs Bryce was undeterred. ‘But I doubt it’ll change things.’ Her raddled cheeks quivered. ‘He was a one, your husband – a luv’ly man. Go inside and have a cup of sweet hot tea. That’ll make you feel better.’
‘I don’t want tea,’ murmured Flora through stiff lips, her face white. ‘Even if the cat hadn’t spilt all the sugar, tea wouldn’t do me any good right now!’ She turned away with a swirl of skimpy skirts. ‘I’m going to my father’s. They won’t be able to lie to him. He’ll tell them.’ The door was left wide as she marched up the lobby. George followed her, still holding the telegram.
‘Mam!’ His voice was uneasy. ‘What’ll I do with this?’ He waved the telegram in the air. Flora, in the process of fastening Rosie’s shoes, did not answer, and with a heavy sigh he shoved it in his pants’ pocket. Finding his plimsolls, he put them on, and followed Flora and Rosie outside.
She barely noticed several of the neighbours standing in groups talking in low voices. Nor the familiar landmarks on the way to her father’s – the icecream parlour, the drinking fountain in the centre of the cobbled road, the church, where she had taken her first communion. She came to the street of yellow brick houses and banged her father’s heavy knocker.
‘It’s hard to take, girl, but you’ve got to accept it.’ Jack Preston stared at Flora from beneath bristling greying brows as he picked up the old clay pipe from the mantelpiece. ‘A pity. He wasn’t a bad sort, your Tom, despite having some daft ideas.’
‘It’s a mistake, Father,’ she responded calmly enough, her eyes fixed on his lined face. ‘You’ll write to them for me and they’ll listen to you – you being a man.’ Her hands lay still in her lap, the fingers interlocked so that the knuckles gleamed white.
‘Don’t be daft, lass,’ he said gruffly. ‘That’d likely be a waste of time.’ He took a dead matchstick from a tin on the hob and lit it from the fire. ‘Besides it’s not me that’s had fancy book learning. You had all that from your mam’s sister.’
Flora’s eyelashes flickered, and pain flashed in her face. ‘But he might not be dead,’ she said earnestly, spreading the telegram on her lap. She read the words yet again. Missing presumed dead. Dead! Her hopes dimmed but she persisted. ‘If he’s dead, Father, why do they say presumed?’ she stammered. ‘If they can’t find his body, then –’
Her father bit hard on his pipe and rubbed his chin. ‘Have you forgotten the May blitz, girl? And the mess a landmine caused? How many went missing in those days – some never to be found.’
Flora moistened her dry mouth; she felt sick and cold as her father’s words conjured up pictures in her mind, so that she could almost smell brick and plaster dust, and the acrid smoke as the heart of Liverpool had collapsed and burnt. She remembered going past Mill Road Hospital with the newly born Rosie in a pram. That had been terrible – hit by a parachute mine, most of the mothers and babies in the maternity ward had been killed. Even so there had been places in the city where people had been dug out alive after being missing for several days. She sought to hold on to her previous hope. ‘But it’s still possible that he’s just missing. He might still be alive!’
‘It’s not impossible, I suppose,’ muttered her father grudgingly. ‘But they don’t send telegrams if there’s a good chance of someone being alive, girl. You’ve just got to accept that he’s gone, and get on with your life for the kids’ sake.You’re not the only one grieving, Flora.’
‘I’m not grieving at all because he might be alive, Father. He’ll come back, you’ll see.’ Her hands shook, and her thumbnails dug into her flesh. The pain was a distraction from the greater chilling dark ache that had her in its hold.
He shook his head slowly. ‘We’ll see, girl. But I think you’d be wiser accepting these things happen.’
Avoiding his eyes Flora rose from the straight-backed chair. ‘You won’t write then, Father?’ He shook his head. ‘Then I will,’ she murmured, squaring her shoulders. ‘I’ll go home and do it now.’
She was halfway to the front door when her father called: ‘What about George and the little lass?’ His fierce blue eyes accused her. ‘Don’t be thinking just of yerself, girl.’
Her cheeks flushed, she went to get her children but her mind was filled with thoughts of Tom. They came without any fuss, George clutching a couple of small eggs. Her father told him he could have them.
They had only just got home when there was a knock on the door. George went to open it. On the doorstep stood Kathleen Murphy, skinny and dark with pinched features, who was of a similar age to him. She grinned and thrust a cup at him. ‘Me mam sent this sugar. Said yer mam’s gorra make ’erself a cuppa tea, sweet and ’ot. And if there’s anything she can do, yer mam’s only gorra ask.’
George took the half filled cup of sugar and shifted awkwardly. ‘Thanks.’ There was a pause as they stared at each other. ‘Will you be playing out after?’
Her smile broadened. ‘If you’re not playin’ with a ball and getting in the way of our rope, we could play duckin’ under without touchin’.’
‘Or stroke the bunny!’ he retorted, almost enthusiastically.
‘Yer’d ’ave to get some of the others to play,’ said Kathleen. She liked the hide and seek game, especially when there was the chance of ending up behind a privet hedge with George.
‘See you later then.’ He winked and closed the door.
Flora was touched by the gift from Mrs Murphy, guessing that she could ill-afford it, and made them all a cup of sweet tea. Later she wrote off to the War Commissioners, pleading with them to find her husband, then she waited.
The next few weeks passed in a haze. Flora did all the normal tasks, but it was as if she was standing outside herself, watching someone else perform them. She could not eat and slept only fitfully. Sometimes she drifted into slumber and dreamed her old dream of the house by the sea. In that period of half waking, half sleeping, she imagined that Tom was with her – that they were holding each other.
Fully awake, it was as if she was in a glass bubble looking out on a world of people going about their everyday lives, unaware that she existed. In a way that was what she wanted. When people attempted to intrude into her bubble, its protection grew wobbly and she feared it would collapse and her with it, because she could not bear the way they all felt sorry for her. They believed Tom dead, and that made him dead. They asked if there was anything they could do, but she always refused very politely, and so the weeks went by.
The day that the letter came telling her that no trace had been found of Tom – that he had been in an area where a shell had exploded, killing five other men and wounding two – her hopes were shattered. It was just as her father had said, and he was generally right.
She went to church, the children sitting on either side of her, and knelt throughout the whole of a morning service. Prayer was beyond her. All that she could do was to stare fixedly at the brass eagle with its soaring wings, holding the large Bible. ‘They shall mount up like eagles – they shall run and not be weary –’ The lines from Isaiah trickled through her thoughts, and she wondered whether Tom was existing in a heaven somewhere.
The day after, Mrs Murphy stopped her in the street. ‘And how have you bin, Mrs Cooke?’ she asked. ‘Our Kat’leen’s been telling me that George said there’s no hope of your husband being alive now.’
‘Yes,’ said Flora in a voice that was calmer than she felt. ‘I still find it hard to believe.’
There was compassion in the Irishwoman’s face. ‘I’ll say a prayer for you, girlie,’ she murmured. ‘And for your good man’s soul. I’m on my way to mass now.’
Flora did not believe in praying for the dead. Salvation was in Jesus, and only His forgiveness of confessed sins could save you. Still, her grief caused her to clutch at anything more that could be done for Tom. Later that day when she passed St Michael’s, she caught a glimpse of a statue and the brightly decorated altar through the open door, and she thought of her father. He would have a fit if he ever got to know that she had had prayers said in a Catholic church. Orange was the sash her father wore, he hated papists. But for once she did not care about religious differences. Mrs Murphy had wanted to help in the way she thought best.
Flora stared up at the sky, grey without a glimmer of sun. Where were all her dreams now? Vanished with Tom. She attempted to straighten drooping shoulders, but it was as if a weight pressed them down. Despair gripped her. How was she going to cope with life without hope of ever seeing him again?
As Flora went about her household tasks or stood in queues she was haunted by the past. So many places shrieked: Remember! When Tom paid a whole shilling to take you to the Paramount when it first opened and you saw Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra. When he taught you to swim in the baths in Stanley Park. When he kissed you for the first time on the grass, lush green and sprinkled with daisies, and it felt like heaven.
And although Tom had barely slept in their double bed since the war began, now it seemed over-large and terribly empty. How now was it possible to rise in the world – to have that house by the sea for her and Tom and the kids? A large house with a bathroom and a garden big enough to grow lots of flowers. Her past dreams seemed to mock her.
Slowly all her interest in, and love of, life seeped out of her, and only caring for the children kept her going. Sleep was difficult, although she always felt tired. She could not eat, having no interest in food. Her father told her that she was losing her grip on things and that she must pull herself together.
Flora tried but one day she was so weary that she could not get out of bed. Instead she lay watching specks of dust caught in a beam of sunlight that came through the bay window. Slowly the conviction that Tom was standing at the edge of the ray’s brightness filled her being. Only Rosie wandering round and round the room, dragging a well-worn knitted bear, distracted her momentarily. Eventually the little girl managed to open the bedroom door and shut it behind her. The sun shifted round to the west and still Flora lay in bed.
When George came home he discovered Rosie sitting on the rag rug in the kitchen, her arms wrapped tightly about the cat. She smelt. He was sick with hunger but it was obvious to him that there was no tea. ‘Where’s Mam?’ he demanded of his sister in an angry, worried voice.
She rubbed her nose against the cat’s fur. ‘Bed,’ she muttered forlornly. ‘Hasn’t got up.’ Then she released the cat and held out her arms to him. ‘Carry, Georgie.’
He shook his head. ‘You’ve dirtied yourself.’ Suddenly panic seized him. It wasn’t like Mam to let Rosie get in such a state. He turned and raced upstairs.
The room was filled with the shadows of early evening and for an instant he thought Flora dead. Then her eyelids slowly lifted. ‘Tom?’ Her voice was husky as she squinted at George.
‘Mam, why aren’t you up?’ His voice cracked. ‘Are you ill?’ He sat nervously on the edge of the bed.
‘Oh, it’s you, son.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I thought I saw your dad.’
Fear held George motionless and speechless, and his mouth went dry. He swallowed. ‘You can’t have,’ he said baldly.
Her head shifted slowly on the pillow. ‘You’re wrong, son. He was over there in the corner. Perhaps he wants me to go with him?’
‘But he’s dead!’ Involuntarily his eyes searched the corners of the room and relief mingled with his panic. ‘There’s nobody there, Mam! You’re seeing things. Come on – get up. You shouldn’t be in bed at this time of day unless you’re ill. And you’re never ill.’ His hands seized the covers and he twitched them right back, revealing her body in the blue cotton frock she had worn all week. He was even more frightened then. Why hadn’t he noticed her getting thinner and thinner? She was bony, and that wasn’t his mam. What if she died?
He took hold of her wrists, gripping them tightly, wanting her out of the bed and on her feet. Once upright he felt sure that she would be okay.
George pulled hard yet as gently as he could. Flora came up to a sitting position abruptly, a surprised expression on her face. ‘That’s it, Mam.’ He forced a smile. ‘Now you’ve got to get out of bed.’
‘I don’t know if I can,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so tired, son.’ The lines of her narrow-cheeked face drooped wearily, and her body sagged backwards.
‘You’ve got to.’ He felt quite desperate as he gripped her wrists the firmer. ‘We need you, Mam.’ He pulled, and suddenly they toppled over and his head hit the floor.
Rubbing the back of his head, he lay where he landed. ‘That hurt!’
‘Oh, George,’ she said in a trembling voice, her hazel eyes catching the last of the daylight as she struggled to rise. ‘You should have left me. Now you’ve hurt yourself.’
‘I’ll live.’ He stared at her, and a sob rose in his throat. ‘But you – you look awful, Mam! Your hair’s all tatty and long, like a witch’s in the stories you used to tell me.’
‘Stories?’ Flora’s eyes rested on his anxious, young face, meeting the brown gaze so like Tom’s, and she remembered the days of the blitz when she had taken the four-year-old George and baby Rosie down into the cellar when the bombs were falling. She had never felt safe in the air raid shelters since the Martin sisters and their mam had been killed in a direct hit. Now, staring at her son, she struggled with her emotions, thinking of the times she had found comfort in her children’s company when danger had been close and Tom away at some training camp. She had sung lullabies and songs when fear had to be kept at bay.
‘Remember the story about the dogs, the soldier and the tinder box?’ demanded George eagerly. ‘That was a favourite of mine.’
Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. ‘That had a happy ending,’ she whispered.
He smiled, wrapping his arms round his hunched knees, watching her shadowy face and noting the glistening tears. She had hardly cried since his dad had died, nor had he. Suddenly he wanted to weep, but boys were not supposed to cry. ‘I like happy endings.’ His voice was husky.
‘Happy ever after,’ she said unsteadily, reaching out for her son. Her arms went round him and she touched the bump on his head with shaking fingers and then kissed it. At last she managed to swallow. ‘Life’s endings aren’t always happy, son, but maybe that’s because we don’t go on believing and hoping long enough.’ Her voice gained strength. ‘I’ll get up. You must be hungry.’
‘Yeh!’ George felt a surge of joy, knowing that in the last few minutes she had become his old mam again. He felt like he had won a battle. ‘Let’s go downstairs. There’s not much to eat, Mam. You haven’t been shopping today, and I couldn’t find the ration books yesterday.’
‘I’ve probably put them somewhere safe. In the meantime you’ll have to have some butter on that bump.’ She dragged his head down and kissed it again.
This time he struggled. ‘I’d rather have it on bread if there is any.’ He took hold of her hands and pulled her up.
Flora’s legs felt wobbly and her feet as if glued to the floor, but she stumbled on to the dark landing and somehow they got down the stairs.
As they entered the kitchen Rosie was poking the paw of the struggling cat through the bars of the unlit fire, but as soon as she saw them she dropped the animal and it fled into the back kitchen. ‘Mam!’ She held up her arms, and her tiny white teeth gleamed in the dark. ‘Cat scratched me.’
‘You smell!’ Flora fought down the wave of nausea, and summoning all her strength lifted her child. ‘Poor little girl,’ she whispered.
Rosie snuggled against her shoulder. ‘Door locked, Mam. Take me the lav?’
Flora nodded wearily, before addressing her son. ‘Get a chair and light the gas mantle, George.’ He hurried to do as he was told while with cautious steps she carried her daughter down the back yard.
The cold air refreshed Flora and when they came back in the house she washed her daughter, standing her in the stone sink. Rosie was shivering by the time they went into the kitchen, lit by the glow of the gaslight.
George had raked out the ashes from the grate and was laying paper and wood. Flora found the shovel, and feeling her way carefully down the cellar steps in the dark she fetched coal. It was not long before the fire was burning and the kettle was on.
The children followed her out into the back kitchen to the food cupboard. ‘Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard,’ murmured Flora. ‘Now what would Mrs Beeton do with what we’ve got?’ She reached for the half packet of dried egg powder, the half bottle of milk, the hunk of bread, and the small block of salt.
‘Who’s Mrs Beeton?’ George took the milk from beneath her arm, not wanting it to slip.
‘She was a Victorian lady who wrote a book and used to give recipes for fancy meals. I found a copy, old and tatty, in the printing works where I once worked.’
Not interested in old Victorian ladies, George said nothing more, only leading the way into the kitchen. He took the frying pan from the oven at the side of the black leaded fireplace.
‘We’ll have omelettes.’ Flora took off the steaming kettle and made tea. ‘You can make toast, son.’
After their meal George went over to the wireless, and began to twiddle with the knobs to produce a cacophony that made Flora want to scream. Then on the air came Vera Lynn.
She could no longer sit still. She wanted to cry, but what good did crying do you? Better to try for a smile. Smile, darn you, smile! It would take a lot of time and effort to heat water to fill the tin bath just a few inches, but she’d do it. ‘Keep smiling through,’ she sang unevenly, and fanned the embers of hope in her heart.
Shortly after a letter came with a warranty note telling Flora that she was entitled to a certain amount of money in accordance with the will soldier Tom Cooke had made. Her newfound hope almost died then, but she told herself that those in charge were only behaving properly. Besides they needed some new clothes for the winter and she had the coupons. So they went to T.J. Hughes and had a good old spend. She bought a two-tone coat in mustard and brown, some liberty bodices and warm knickers for Rosie, and flannel shorts and socks for George.
Having spent most of the money she knew that she would have to set about finding a part-time job. She went to her father’s, hoping that he might have changed his mind about taking care of Rosie.
‘You look different,’ he grunted, as she entered the front room of the two-up, two-down terraced house not far from Liverpool football ground. He waved his old clay pipe in the air. ‘Come to your senses, have you, girl?’
She tossed back her long, well-brushed hair, and smiled determinedly. ‘You could say that. I’ve brought you some bread. I wasn’t sure if you’d been able to get out with that bad leg of yours.’ She placed her shopping bag on the drop leaf, dark oak table, noticing it had a veneer of dust over it.
‘I managed,’ he grunted, peering closely at her. ‘That’s a new coat! Where d‘you get the money?’
She told him, proud that her voice did not tremble at all. Shrugging herself out of it, she placed the new coat carefully over the back of the rocking chair near the black leaded grate which took up most of one wall of the small dark room. Thankfully she sat down in the chair. Her feet were aching from standing in queues.
Rosie climbed on her knee, making herself comfortable by squirming for several seconds, before addressing her grandfather. ‘Cup of tea, Grandpa? Cold outside.’ She shivered expressively.
Jack Preston’s grey brows drew together. ‘That’s fine manners, you’ve got,’ he growled. ‘Little girls should be seen and not heard. What’s your mother teaching you – that’s what I’d like to know.’
‘Her letters, Father,’ put in Flora, her tone light and amused although slightly on the defensive. ‘Knowing them will help her to get on quicker when she goes to school. I did the same for George, remember?’
‘George is a boy,’ said Jack, scowling. ‘All this learning isn’t any use to a girl. What good did it do you having your mother’s sister teach you? You had your head in a book half the time when teaching you to scrub a floor properly and cook a decent meal would have been more to the point.’
‘I’ve scrubbed many a floor and cooked lots of meals since those days, Father,’ retorted Flora with a touch of spirit. ‘But if you think that’s all I want for my daughter, then you’re mistaken. The war’s changed things and a woman’s place in the future won’t be just in the home. Look at Aunt Beattie, God rest her soul! It’s a good job that she had some education or where would she have been when she had to earn a living for life? Being in service isn’t a picnic.’
‘And being a spinster school marm was, I suppose?’ grunted Jack.
‘Better than lots of jobs.’ She met his gaze squarely. ‘And it’s a good thing she didn’t marry, otherwise she mightn’t have been able to look after me and our Hilda.’
Her father’s face darkened. ‘Don’t mention your sister’s name in this house. Shamed me, she did.’
‘It was the war, Father.’ Flora heaved herself out of the chair, still holding Rosie. ‘She wasn’t the only one to get caught because she loved a man.’
‘Love,’ muttered Jack. ‘Carnal lust, that’s what it was, girl. A daughter of mine! Your mother must have turned in her grave. I put some of the blame on that cattiwake next door. Your sister had the nerve to tell me years back that she’d spent the night in bed with three boys!’ He bit hard on his pipe, staring into the fire.
Flora could not help laughing. ‘There was nothing in it! We were only kids, and Mam died suddenly, and Aunt Beattie was trying to get in touch with you and make arrangements for the funeral. It was good of Mrs Kelly to take us in. I remember there were seven in the bed – all lined up like sardines in a tin.’ No way would she tell him that one Kelly tearaway had stuck his foot up her nightie!
He grunted. ‘All wrong – wouldn’t have been allowed in the same house in my day. Never mind Orange and Green in the same bed.’
‘Being Catholic isn’t catching like whooping cough. It didn’t rub off on us in the dark!’ She put Rosie back on the rocking chair and going over to the fire, placed the kettle on the glowing coals. She fell silent, remembering that it was outside the Kellys’ house that she had sat on the kerb, watching Tom and her sister talking to each other, before the rest of the older kids started a game of rounders. Tom had sent a ball way up the street and had broken a window. They had all run like mad to escape the scolding of old Mr Jones. They had fled to the park but soon Tom had them all laughing about being so scared of an old man whose bark was worse than his bite. A long low breath escaped her and there was an ache in her chest as she thought of that mad Alec Tom.
‘Well, girl, are you making tea or dreaming?’ rasped her father, bringing Flora out of her reverie.
She turned to face him. ‘I was wondering, Father, if you’ve given any more thought to looking after Rosie for me? I’ll have to get some kind of work. Money’s tight and –’
‘Why don’t you try Mrs Kelly?’ Her father’s faded blue eyes gleamed with the faintest hint of malice. ‘I mean, she might have gone a bit crackers in her old age, but she can’t have forgotten how to handle kids. She had enough of them!’
Flora shook her head at him. ‘Now be serious, Father. She has enough on her plate, taking charge of her grandchildren while her two daughters are working.’
‘Aye, well I’m not so young, and Rosie is a handful of trouble. I reckon you’ll just have to try and manage till she goes to school. Can’t be long now.’
‘September.’ Flora supplied the answer in muted tones, as her hands busied themselves making tea. But she had made up her mind that she would not ask her father again. Somehow she would have to manage.
She had almost resigned herself to waiting until September before looking for a job, when Mrs Murphy, pushing a pram with two girls inside and two more hanging on to the sides, paused to pass the time of day as Flora scrubbed the step.
‘I heard you were looking for a little part time job, girl.’