Читать книгу A Strong Hand to Hold - Anne Bennett - Страница 11

Linda was talking about her father. She’d been talking about him for some time and Jenny encouraged her; it was better for her to talk about him than ask searching questions about her mother or little brothers. She knew that when this was all over, Linda would have to live with someone, so she listened, hoping to hear of a nice gran somewhere, or a kindly aunt to help Linda over the tragedy of it all.

She felt it such a shame that her father hadn’t survived to see his daughter grow up. But she’d had a stepfather for four years; maybe he had relations she could live with.

She waited until there was a lull in the conversation, and then probed gently, ‘What about your stepfather Linda? Did you get on with him?’

She heard the sharp intake of breath and then Linda hissed, ‘I hated him. I wanted him to die. I was glad when he went off to war and every day I wished he’d never come home again. I was glad when we got the telegram.’

Jenny was so shocked by the venom in the child’s voice, she said not a word and Linda went on, ‘I bet you think that’s dead wicked don’t you?’

The Catholic Church would, Jenny knew, but she didn’t say that. Instead, she said gently, ‘Why did you want him to die?’

‘’Cos he used to knock me mom about,’ Linda said. ‘He was big, like an all-in wrestler, he was. Mom used to say he was as broad as he was long – he was, near enough – and he used to hit her, ’specially when he came from the pub. I used to think he’d kill her; I reckon he could have too. She used to have black eyes and bruises on her cheeks, me mom did. She always said she fell. But I knew she never, ’cos I used to hear him.’

She stopped and there was a pause and Jenny was loath to break it, feeling sure Linda hadn’t finished. After a minute or two, she began again, but her voice was so low, Jenny had to strain to hear. ‘I’ll tell you something now I’ve never told a living soul, not even Mom. Not ’cos I didn’t think she’d believe me, but ’cos I didn’t want her to be upset. I mean, what could she do about it anyway?’

There was another pause and part of Jenny wanted the child to go on with her tale, but the other half of her recoiled from it. In a way she was semi-prepared for what came next. ‘He used to touch me, you know, my … my privates, like. He told me I’d get to enjoy it, and when I was bigger he’d do more exciting things that I’d get to enjoy more. But I never did, I hated it, and I hated him, I did, and I was glad he died, so there.’

Jenny imagined Linda’s little face contorted with hate as she almost spat the last words out. She felt for her hand and held it tight, although her own was still semi-bandaged, and said, ‘That was awful for you Linda, but not all men are like that, you know.’

She felt she had to get that point across, but Linda said firmly, ‘I know that. My own dad wasn’t and there’s lots more who don’t do that sort of thing.’ Then suddenly she changed her tack and asked, ‘Was your dad nice?’

‘Very,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘But he was born to a totally different life from yours and mine, because he was brought up in a cottage in Northern Ireland in a village called Cullinova.’

‘Is that why you speak funny?’ Linda said. She knew all about Irish people. Most of them went to the St Peter and Paul’s Catholic church on Kingsbury Road on Sunday morning, and her mom always said they were odd. They couldn’t eat meat on Fridays but could get tanked up on a weekend and beat up their women, then go and tell it all to the priest who would say it was all right. Then, her mother said, they often went and did the same thing the next week. But Jenny didn’t talk like the Irish people she knew, and yet she didn’t speak Brummie either. ‘You don’t speak like Irish people,’ she said. ‘Not ones I know, any road.’

‘Well, I was born here,’ Jenny said. Her mother had worked hard on them to eradicate all traces of an Irish accent and had insisted the children call her and Dermot Mother and Father, instead of Mammy and Daddy. But Jenny had always called her father Daddy in her head, and used the name whenever they’d been alone.

‘Maybe that’s it,’ Linda said, and added, ‘tell me about your dad. I’ve told you all about mine.’

Jenny only hesitated briefly. Somehow they had to fill the hours until they were rescued, and she didn’t want Linda to start to fret over her family again and so she told her of the young boy who’d worked on the estate of his English master, Fotherington. First he worked on the land and then as a ghillie or a boat boy and later as a groom in the stables.

Linda was fascinated, as this was all new and different to her life.

‘When did he marry your mom?’ Linda asked.

‘Not long after he got a cottage of his own,’ Jenny told her. ‘But my mother had a totally different upbringing, in a large house with servants and so on. But my mother’s father died when she was in her late teens, and they found they weren’t rich any more. Her father had run up huge debts and everything, including the house which had to be sold.’

Linda thought that was sad and Jenny supposed it was. Her mother must have felt desperate, especially when her own mother, Eileen Gillespie, had a nervous breakdown through it all and was taken into a hospital in Derry, leaving her all alone.

‘Good job your dad was there then,’ Linda said.

‘Yes,’ Jenny said, remembering how her father had adored Norah Gillespie for years, though he’d never expected anything to come of it. Suddenly there she was, educated to the hilt, but fit for nothing, and destitute into the bargain.

‘So they got married?’ Linda said.

‘Yes; in time her mother, Eileen, recovered and moved in with them. My three brothers and sister were born and things were very difficult for my mother, for she’d not been raised to cook and clean, you see.’

‘Who did it then?’

‘My father’s mother, Gran O’Leary,’ Jenny said. ‘She taught my mother basic housework and cookery and showed her how to cope with the babies when they came, and Daddy did his fair share too.’

Linda screwed her eyes up, glad Jenny couldn’t see her, for she thought Jenny’s mother sounded like a silly cow. Everyone knew that housework and babbies were women’s work. ‘Why did they come to live in Birmingham?’ she asked as the silence between them lengthened, but Jenny’s reply was stopped, for suddenly there was a shout above them. ‘Are you all right down there?’

Jenny gave a sigh of relief. ‘We’re fine.’

Cor blimey, thought the man who’d broken through close enough to communicate with the girls. They’re alive!

That cheered him, for as the icy night had drawn its freezing cloak about everyone, hope had died among the rescuers. It was hard to keep working in the dark and intense cold, when all you expected to recover from your efforts were two corpses. God, when he took the news back, it would make everything seem worthwhile.

But none of his thoughts did he portray in his voice. He forced himself to speak calmly, in order that neither of them was alarmed as he shouted down, ‘We’ll start moving the heavy stuff now. Don’t be alarmed at the noise. We might disturb some dust and that. Wanted you to be prepared. Take some time, I’d say, because we might have to shore it up as we go.’

‘That’s all right,’ Jenny said. She knew they’d need to take extreme care, but however nerve-racking it would be, it was the first step to their release. She felt lightheaded as she thought that in a few hours they might be free and out in fresh air again. The air around them had got extremely muggy and she wondered how much air there was left but she definitely didn’t want Linda worrying about it, so she said brightly, ‘This calls for a celebration! What about another biscuit and a drink of water?’

Linda laughed. ‘You’re a proper daft bugger, you are,’ she said. ‘But you’re dead nice with it.’

For a while all that could be heard was the sound of crunching. Linda finished her biscuit and said, ‘I feel as if I’ve known you all my life. I reckon our mom will be really grateful to you, coming back like you said you would. She’ll want to thank you, I know she will. You’ll like my mom; she’s nice.’ There was a pause and Linda said, ‘You ain’t that keen on your mom, are you?’

Jenny hesitated a moment or two and then decided to tell the truth. ‘I don’t like her that much,’ she said. ‘I don’t think she’s that keen on me either.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jenny said wearily. ‘I don’t really think she wanted any more children for one thing. She already had four. Then I don’t look like the others either. I take after my dad’s side of the family. I look just like my Gran O’Leary did when she was young, and I’m glad because I think the world of her.’

‘Well, I think you’ve got a lovely face,’ Linda said firmly. ‘I can’t see much of it, but you look really friendly. Tell you the truth, I ain’t been so pleased to see anyone in my life as I was to see you. I thought I was going to die all by myself.’

‘Oh but that’s different,’ Jenny said. ‘I mean in your position I’d have been pleased to see Dracula.’

‘Hmm, I suppose so,’ Linda agreed and then with a spark of humour added, ‘You’re nicer looking than Dracula though, not much mind, but a bit.’

Jenny marvelled at the young girl’s spirit.

They lay in silence for some time, then Linda said, ‘Talk to me some more, Jenny.’

‘What about?’

‘Tell me about your gran and what she did when she first came to Birmingham.’

‘Well, she went to work in the Jewellery Quarter,’ Jenny said.

‘Oh I’d love it there,’ Linda cried. ‘I’ve only been once in my life. What did she do?’

‘She made watch chains, bracelets and necklaces,’ Jenny said. ‘At first she operated a press to cut out the rough for the men to work on, but then she learnt how to do it herself. She knew how to enamel brooches and badges too.’

‘I’d love to do that,’ Linda said again.

‘Well you can if you’d want to, I’d say.’

‘If the war ain’t over, I’ll probably have to work in munitions,’ Linda said glumly. ‘Mom likes it, but I don’t think I will.’

‘Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like,’ Jenny said. ‘But the war won’t last for ever, will it?’ Eventually all the workshops and factories will make other things just like they did before the war. We’re lucky in Birmingham.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s the workshop of the world. Don’t you know that?’

‘I never heard that before.’

Jenny gave a little laugh. ‘I didn’t understand it when Daddy told me either,’ she said. ‘It means Birmingham makes so many things, small things like safety pins and nuts and bolts, up to bicycles, motor bikes and cars, while related firms like Dunlop make rubber for the tyres. We also have our own jewellery quarter and thriving brass industry. It means, not only are there lots of jobs, but there’s also a variety of them, see? You can do more or less any job you want, if you set your heart on it.’

She was glad they’d both been warned about the noise the rescuers might make because it was unnerving. The sides of their space beneath the stairs kept groaning and shaking, and plaster and brick dust began to trickle down on them. Jenny found herself holding her breath, expecting any minute for the lot to crash in on them, burying them both. She wondered how Linda was bearing up against the new danger that seemed to be around them, and when she felt a small hand tighten around hers, she knew the level of panic within her. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘They know what they’re doing.’

‘I know,’ Linda’s voice was a mere whisper. ‘My legs are beginning to pain me again.’

Jenny wasn’t surprised. They had been trapped a long time; small wonder the morphine had begun to wear off. ‘If my mom was here, we’d be singing together,’ Linda said with a stifled sob. Jenny felt she had to take the child’s mind off the pain in her legs if she could, so though she hated any reference to Linda’s mother, in case it should lead to awkward questions, she said, ‘Did you used to sing a lot?’

‘Sometimes,’ Linda said. ‘Once we sang all the time but that was before Mom married that Ted Prosser, and then we stopped ’cos he didn’t like it. Mom’s got a lovely voice and we had a good old sing-song in the shelter, for the babbies you know. They was scared to death – so were we really – but in a way it was worse for them, ’cos they don’t understand nothing do they?’

‘No,’ Jenny said, and before Linda could say anything else about the little boys that Jenny had seen crushed to death, she went on, ‘why don’t you sing here for me, now?’

‘On me own?’ Linda said.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m no good without Mom,’ Linda said. ‘And I’d feel proper daft.’

‘Why?’ Jenny said. ‘It isn’t as if I can even see you.’

Linda considered Jenny’s words. It was true, no one could see her and no one but Jenny would hear her, either, and she could often forget things when she sang. Perhaps the pain in her bloody legs wouldn’t be so bad either. ‘I’ll sing for you,’ she said. ‘It’s me mom’s favourite. It ain’t mine. I like something a bit jollier, but she sings along with this whenever it’s on the wireless.’

‘What is it?’

‘“A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”,’ Linda said, and without another word she opened her mouth and began, ‘“When true lovers meet in Mayfair, so the legends tell …”’

Jenny was stunned by the beauty and clarity of the voice. It was so sweet and clear and perfectly in tune, it moved Jenny to tears. For a child to lie flat on her back for so many hours in total darkness and in dreadful pain, all alone until Jenny had eventually reached her, and still to be able to sing like she did, she thought was truly wonderful. Jenny realized, as Patty had, that Linda had a great gift.

Outside, the raw winter’s day was beginning again. The pearly grey dawn eventually gave some light to the rescuers, some of whom had toiled through the night. Then the rain began, pounding the pavements and stinging their faces in icy spears, the wet making the rubble pile slippery and slimy and more unstable than ever. It was hard to continue to move the rubbish away with wet hands, their fingers aching and made clumsy with the bitter cold.

And yet, no one wanted to give up now the girls had been located and it had been established both of them were alive and well. Those who had work that day had gone back home to prepare for it. But there were others to take their place.

And then into that grey, depressing, rain-sodden morning, came the sound of singing, and what singing! ‘It’s one of the girls down there,’ one man remarked.

‘She sounds like a nightingale herself,’ another commented. A third rubbed his hands over his eyes and said, ‘I call that real courage. Let’s put our backs into this and get those two girls out quick.’

Dr Sanders, who’d been home for a brief rest before morning surgery, returned after it to see what progress had been made. By then Linda was singing, ‘I’m going to hang out the washing on the Seigfried Line’, after a rendering of ‘The Quartermaster’s Stores’, and ‘We’ll Meet Again’.

Dr Sanders knew who it was. Beattie had told him of Linda’s love of singing and the quality of her voice, but he was amazed she was still able to sing after being incarcerated for so long. ‘How much longer?’ he asked impatiently. ‘That painkiller I gave the girl to take in will be wearing off soon.’

‘Another half hour should do it, Doc,’ one of the men said. ‘You don’t want us to lift the stairs up off her yet, do you?’

‘Not till I examine her,’ Dr Sanders said. He wasn’t sure of the extent of the damage. Linda’s legs could be smashed to pulp and once the stairs were lifted, she could bleed to death. It might even be that one, or both, of the young girl’s legs would have to be amputated. God, he hoped that wasn’t the case. But then, only the previous week, he’d dined with a friend and colleague from London, who’d just done such an operation on a young boy. The boy had been caught in an air raid and pinned down as the building fell on him. Dr Sanders’ friend had amputated both legs below the knee on the dust-laden pavement, with only the light from a couple of shielded hurricane lamps, and with bombs dropping all around them. It made Dr Sanders’ blood run cold to think of it. ‘I’m off to do a few visits,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a little while to see how you’re doing. Send for me if you need me before; my receptionist will know where I am.’

‘OK, Doc.’ The man who’d spoken watched the doctor walk away and sighed. He wouldn’t want his job in this war for all the tea in China.

Linda eventually stopped. ‘I can’t sing any more,’ she said. Jenny heard her breath coming in short gasps and knew the pain had taken over again. She could do nothing but hold her close and pray. Slowly the conversation above became distinguishable from the low rumble heard previously. Now she could hear actual words and she knew any minute they would break through. The darkness was not so dense now, she noticed. It was grey rather than deep dense black. Then suddenly it was over and light flooded in. A cheery face looked down at her. He looked exhausted and had red-rimmed eyes, but his face near split in two when he saw the girls cuddled up together. ‘By God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Have you out in a jiffy, ducks. Who was it giving the concert then?’

‘Linda,’ Jenny said getting to her feet. ‘But she’s in terrible pain again now.’

‘Doc’s here,’ the man said. ‘You hurt at all?’

‘No, not really,’ Jenny said, shaking herself free of the blanket and struggling to her feet. But her head swam as she stood up and she staggered like a drunk as she made her way over to the hole the man had made.

‘Catch hold of me, ducks,’ the man said. ‘We’ll get you out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ Jenny lifted up her hands and the man whistled when he saw them. ‘Thought you said you wasn’t injured?’ he said. ‘You won’t be able to hold anything much with these hands. I’ll catch hold of your arms. Don’t worry, I’ll soon have you up.’

And he did. Another man came to help and they hauled her upwards. For a moment she was suspended in mid-air, and then she lay on the top of the rubble, panting. She gulped at the fresh air thankfully and didn’t mind the numbing cold, nor the icy rain that was still pelting down.

‘How’s the child?’ the doctor asked Jenny, as she tried to stand unsteadily, supported by the two rescue workers.

‘She’s been OK till a little while ago,’ Jenny said. ‘The morphine’s wearing off now.’

‘I guessed as much,’ Dr Sanders said grimly. ‘I’m going down immediately,’ he told the men and they nodded briefly. Then to Jenny he said, ‘There’s an ambulance waiting. You use it.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘There’s plenty,’ he said, ‘and I’m afraid I must insist. There’s another one on the way for Linda and she won’t be out for a while yet. I’ll have to examine her before they can even begin to start moving the staircase. You get yourself away.’

Jenny was surprised how weak she felt and she knew if it hadn’t have been for the two men either side of her she’d have stumbled on her face more than once. She was surprised at the knot of people gathered who gave a cheer as she appeared. Her gran was there, brought from the house when Jenny’s release was imminent. She was in her old brown coat and didn’t seem to notice the rain pouring down that had plastered her hair to her head.

Geraldine was there beside her. Jenny was touched that she’d come to stand, like her gran, in the rain.

‘Mother’s been beside herself with worry over you,’ Geraldine said, a hint of censure in her voice. ‘What a foolhardy thing to do.’

Jenny was too tired and worn down to make any sort of answer, but her gran wasn’t having Jenny spoken to like that. She said impatiently, ‘This isn’t the time or place to discuss things. Do you want to ride in the ambulance with your sister or not?’

‘No,’ Geraldine said. ‘I must go back to grandmother and mother; they’re minding the children for me. We’ll probably be up later to see you.’

Jenny waved her hand wearily, and Maureen just waited until they had Jenny settled before climbing in beside her.

‘Well, she’s not going away without one of her own beside her,’ she said and she gave a defiant wag of her head from which droplets of glistening rain fell. Jenny smiled and closed her eyes.

When she woke in the General Hospital the following morning, Jenny felt refreshed and more in charge of herself. Even though her hands and legs were heavily bandaged, she wondered why she was taking up a valuable bed that could be used for someone else. All day she fretted about it, but when she attempted to go to the bathroom before lunch, her legs felt so wobbly she was afraid they’d give way, and a scolding nurse brought a wheelchair and assisted her into it. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ she protested. ‘Not really.’

‘You are totally exhausted,’ the nurse said. ‘And suffering from exposure and shock, and you’ve inhaled a lot of dust. As well as that, you had a lot of nasty lacerations on your body, and some of them have become infected, including those on your hands. Is that list enough to be going on with?’

Jenny was surprised, but it certainly explained the weakness she felt. ‘Don’t rush to get better,’ the nurse said with a smile, as she helped her into the toilet. ‘You’ll only put yourself back if you do. We’ll tell you when we want you to sling your hook. All right?’

‘All right,’ Jenny said.

‘D’you want to get tidied up after lunch?’ the nurse went on. ‘A reporter from the Evening Mail wants to interview you and take a photograph. If you feel up to it, that is.’

‘Interview me?’ Jenny said in surprise. ‘Why?’

The nurse laughed. ‘You’re quite a celebrity my dear,’ she said.

‘Linda should be the celebrity,’ Jenny said. ‘Has she been brought here too?’

‘She has,’ the nurse said. ‘Poor wee soul, but she’s far too ill to be interviewed. Too ill for visitors really.’

Jenny felt her heart sink. She settled herself into the wheelchair again and asked anxiously, ‘She will be all right though, won’t she?’

‘Let’s hope so,’ the nurse said, pushing Jenny back to her bed. ‘And at least they managed to save her legs.’

Jenny was glad about that, for she’d been worried about it. ‘Does she know about her family?’ she asked.

‘No,’ the nurse answered. ‘She’s not strong enough for news like that yet. Mind you, they won’t be able to hold out much longer. She’s asking all the time, so I’m told.’

And Jenny knew she would be.

But if Linda wasn’t well enough for visitors, Jenny had plenty. Even her mother had made the journey once and came in a taxi with her grandmother and Geraldine – and her sister-in-law, Jan, had also been. One day she was surprised by a visit from Babs and Lily from the office at Dunlops. They brought her a little basket of fruit donated by the greengrocer on the Tyburn Road, and a sack of papers that had her picture and a story of the rescue plastered all over them. Her mother and grandmother had talked about her in glowing terms and spoke of her considerate and conscientious attitude.

‘In spite of personal grief’ her mother was reported as having said, ‘for Jenny had just learnt of the death of her beloved brother, she reported for duty that night as usual. She is truly a remarkable girl.’ Underneath the reporter had written: Anthony O’Leary was shot down over France. He was one of our brave Battle of Britain pilots to whom we all owe so much.

The evening papers carried the interview with Jenny herself, and she was described as ‘a dainty, pint-sized girl with a lovely freckled face and a gorgeous shock of auburn curls, who, despite her size, had the heart of a lion.’

The whole thing embarrassed Jenny, yet she could see how proud Babs and Lily were of her. They said everyone at work felt the same way and had all signed the card they’d brought in. She knew her mother and grandmother would revel in the attention.

The next day Jenny had the bandages removed from her hands and Linda endured the first of her many operations. The nurses said she would be ready for visitors in a day or two. Jenny was anxious to see her, but she was also concerned about where Linda would go when she recovered. She’d passed on all that she’d learnt about Linda’s relations to the authorities, but had heard nothing of the outcome of any investigations they’d done.

In the end, it was Beattie who told her. Jenny had never seen Beattie looking so sad as she did one afternoon when she came in to see her. Beattie laid a packet of sweets on the bed, gave a sigh and said, ‘How are you ducks?’

‘I’m all right,’ Jenny said. ‘In better shape that you, I think. What on earth is the matter?’

‘Oh, it’s young Linda,’ Beattie said. ‘I popped up to see her first. Poor little bugger. She’s been told about her mom and brothers today.’ Beattie paused. ‘Apparently she went wild, yelling and screaming and lashing out at them all, throwing things.’ There were tears in Beattie’s eyes. ‘Had to be sedated again, the nurses were telling me.’ She looked at Jenny and tears ran down her face as she said, ‘How the bleeding hell will she stand it? Answer me that.’

Jenny couldn’t, and could only guess at the extent of the child’s grief. She’d suffered agonies over Anthony’s death, and even now if she thought about him for too long, the tears could flow. But to lose everyone in the world must be soul-destroying. ‘Let’s hope that whoever she goes to stay with has an understanding nature, and will help her cope,’ she said.

‘That’s another thing,’ Beattie said. ‘Not one of them can or will take her, ’cept the feller in Australia. You ever heard of a kiddie being sent to the other side of the world to a man or family she’s never seen. ‘Specially with all them bleeding U-boats around. She wouldn’t stand a chance. Remember that ship with all those kiddies on board, sunk on its way to America? Anyway the welfare people won’t wear it.’

But what about the aunt that lives in Basingstoke?’

‘She’d have her and willing, but hasn’t the room,’ Beattie said. ‘She came down to see her. A nice woman, but she was telling me she has eight boys already and they’re all living in a little two-bedroom place. All they could give her I expect when she was evacuated, and she really has no room for the child at all.’

‘That’s it then?’ Jenny said. ‘Where will she go?’

Beattie shrugged. ‘Orphanage I suppose,’ she said. ‘I’d take her like a shot if I hadn’t had my house blown up, ’cos she’s a great kid. But I can’t land her on my sister as well.’

‘No, I see that,’ Jenny said. ‘But, oh God Beattie, an orphanage!’

‘I know. Bloody awful.’

‘Tragic,’ said Jenny. She knew Linda, that brave free spirit, would never fit into the rigours of an orphanage. She knew they’d crush her. Who there would care that her world had been tom apart? She’d just be one of many.

Jenny felt very depressed when Beattie had left. She tossed and turned in bed all night.

And in the hour before dawn, as she lay tired, but too emotionally charged for sleep, she wondered for the first time if it wouldn’t have been better for Linda to have died with her mother and brothers. And she turned her face to the wall and sobbed.