Читать книгу Christmas on the Mersey - Annie Groves, Annie Groves - Страница 11

‘Rita! Cooee!’

Rita, deep in thought as she entered Empire Street, turned to see Kitty Callaghan beckoning her across the road. Rita smiled; she had not spoken to Kitty for ages as their shifts were often at different times, and even though they lived almost opposite each other they never seemed to have time for a catch-up these days.

Kitty looked a little perturbed. ‘There’s something I’ve got to show you. Have you got a minute?’ She led Rita up the narrow passageway to her kitchen.

It all seemed very cloak-and-dagger, Rita thought, intrigued. Entering the warm, cosy kitchen where the clean smell of Mansion polish mixed with the delicious aroma of a stew bubbling away on the stove, Rita felt suddenly hungry.

‘Stay and have a bite to eat,’ Kitty said, and she invited Rita to sit at the table before opening the sideboard drawer and taking out an air-mail envelope.

‘This came for you yesterday.’ Kitty’s face was suddenly infused with a pink blush. ‘I didn’t want to take it over the road in case Ma Long-nose saw it and started asking awkward questions. You can do without that kind of thing when you’re busy.’

‘A letter? For me?’ Rita asked, then recognised the careful, copperplate handwriting on the envelope. Jack had sent it. He had sent a few letters to the hospital and she had answered them. They were just friendly and informative, but reading between the lines Rita could tell that Jack still thought a lot of her and she also thought much of him.

A thrill ran right through her. She always looked forward to hearing from Jack. He told her of the long periods of boredom punctuated with bursts of frightening activity. To curb the tedium, he read. Rita knew now that Jack had learned to read and write only while serving his apprenticeship in Belfast. He had told her that he could never have read the letter that she sent to him. The one asking him to come home … the one before she made a decision that would break both of their hearts.

He was now an avid reader and he devoured books of every kind. The last he had read was an Agatha Christie murder mystery, and Rita had hurried to Bootle library to get herself a copy so they could discuss it the next time they saw each other. Rita crushed down the unspoken fear that they all had. The fear about the men they cared for and the danger that they faced in this blasted war. If anything should happen to Jack … He also told her what films he had managed to see when he was not on duty and when Rita saw the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup she knew she was laughing at the same things Jack had laughed along with. She tried to push away the thought that all of this was a fantasy; that the closeness she was trying to create was one that could never happen between them in real life – all it could ever be was a dream …

Kitty hoped her expression gave nothing away, unaware that the way she was twisting the dishcloth in her hands showed her concern.

‘It’s not what it seems,’ Rita spluttered, putting her hand on Kitty’s arm.

‘I don’t think anything, Rita. We’ve know each other for ever,’ Kitty said quietly. ‘We’ve been friends since we were kids. You’re the closest person I’ve had to a sister, my best friend; I could tell you anything and you’d keep it secret until your dying day.’

Kitty was quiet for a moment; Rita didn’t need to question her loyalty. Rita would take it for granted the letter would remain a secret.

She knew their Jack had eyes for no woman but Rita. He never had. She hoped he would meet a nice girl and settle down but he never had done. Kitty hoped they knew what they were doing. People around these parts could be brutal when it suited them, even though she knew that Jack and Rita were both the souls of propriety.

‘They are just letters, Kitty,’ Rita said, wanting to reassure her friend, though Jack’s being far away and in danger was tearing her apart. He could be killed at any time and she had never even told him how she felt. Not since they were young. Now she knew she loved him with every beat of her heart and she always would. ‘We keep each other’s spirits up. I know that you worry for us, but we’re just being good friends to each other.’

‘He’s never got over you,’ Kitty said, ‘and it took a long time for him to stop talking about you. Little things like, “Rita likes those” or “Rita used to say that too” told me that he still thought about you every day.’

‘Did he?’ Rita had tears in her eyes now. Cruel fate had conspired to keep her and Jack apart. When he went to Belfast and she thought he wasn’t coming back, she was scared and confused. She had made a rash decision and a life with Charlie Kennedy was the price she must pay. How could she have been so immature, so stupid to think she could make a life with someone she didn’t really love, and who had never, ever loved her?

‘It’s none of my business, Reet, but … I know that you and Jack will always do what is right.’ Kitty used the name that only Jack ever called her by and Rita’s relief washed over her when she realised Kitty was saying this with the best of intentions. This conversation must be embarrassing Kitty. She had never stepped out of line in her life. Her social standing was impeccable. To agree to say nothing about the letter was tantamount to agreeing with what they were doing. After all, Jack was a single man.

‘I’m a married woman with two children,’ Rita whispered. ‘Nothing can come of a relationship like ours – except heartache, is that what you’re thinking, Kit?’

‘No, I’m not thinking anything of the sort,’ Kitty answered, pulling tiny pieces of dry bread from the piece she had sliced earlier and dropping it into her stew while Rita’s remained untouched. ‘I’m glad you and Jack write to each other, there’s no law against it …’

‘Say what you need to say, Kitty. I’m a grown up.’

‘I just don’t want you or Jack to be hurt any more. Especially Jack, Rita. He needs to make a life for himself. He’s already made so many sacrifices for me and Danny and Tommy.’ Kitty shook her head. ‘But, I won’t say a word to anybody, you know that.’

Rita nodded. Kitty was right. Jack deserved to find someone and have a wife and family of his own. She was selfish to harbour any feelings for him. Rita vowed then that she would write to Jack once more, but this time she’d tell him they must stop. It wouldn’t be right to continue. While she was Charlie’s wife, she must be above criticism. For the sake of the family and for her children.

Kitty gave Rita a gentle smile and then nodded to Rita’s bowl. ‘It’s getting cold …’

Rita had a job to stop tears welling up as she rose from the table and hugged her friend as she would hug her own sisters. Kitty was such a good and loyal friend.

Kitty saw the emotion in her friend’s face. ‘You soppy ha’p’orth,’ she smiled as tears formed in her own eyes. Life was so rotten now that it could not be wrong to find consolation anywhere you could get it.

‘Why don’t you stay and put your feet up for a cuppa before you go back? I’ll put the kettle on and you can share Jack’s news,’ Kitty said, lifting the teapot and making her way out of the kitchen. Rita turned the regulation envelope over in her hands, her fingers itching to tear it open. Yet the bittersweet anticipation stilled her hands.

She was too overwhelmed to reply.

She skimmed the letter quickly, absorbing it only lightly, then went back to the beginning and started again, to savour his words. She imagined his voice in her head as she read. The words were pure Jack: funny, insubordinate when he talked about his super­iors, jokey when talking of the mess pranks. They sounded more like naughty twelve-year-olds than Britain’s proud fighting men. However, his true nature came to the fore when he told her that while on shore leave, he and his ‘oppo’ (his opposite num­­ber) had found a kitten nestling next to its dead mother:

He is as black as the hobs of hell, Reet, I couldn’t just leave him there, and the poor thing would have died before the night was out. So I gently picked him up and snook him into my duffel coat and took him on board the ship. I put him in a cardboard box under my bunk – he was comfy as anything, but the lads said he cried so much when I was out with the squad that I had to take him up with me inside my flying jacket – he loved it – so I’ve called him Winco – he’s my good luck cat.

Rita smiled as she read the letter; trust Jack to be so sensitive and so thoughtful. The war had not changed him – thank goodness.

‘Do you want me to mind the letter for you?’ Kitty asked.

Rita knew that when Kitty said ‘mind’ the letter she meant ‘hide’.

‘No, thanks, Kit; I don’t want you to get into bother for me. But thank you for being so understanding.’

‘If there are any more I’ll keep them here for you and I’ll let you know as soon as they arrive.’

‘You’re a pal, Kit.’

Rita hugged her friend again and her throat tightened when Kitty said, ‘I wish our Jack had seen sense all those years ago and married you instead of going to Belfast.’

So do I, Kit, thought Rita, so do I.

Petty Officer Jack Callaghan took Rita’s letter out of the envelope and carefully unfolded it against the stiff breeze blowing onto the flight deck of HMS Distinguished.

An aviator in the Fleet Air Arm, after intensive shore-based training and successfully qualifying, he piloted a Swordfish biplane.

The aircraft carrier had been reprieved from the ships’ graveyard at the eleventh hour, and was now heading for home from European waters to replenish essentials.

Jack adored his job and loved nothing better than flying his steadfast, if somewhat uncomfortable aircraft, commonly known as the ‘string bag’ by the flight crew, to carry out night attacks. The excitement of the chase whilst serving in almost every theatre of war gave Jack little time to worry about what was going on at home, although word was coming through that Merseyside was taking a right hammering.

The reply from Rita was dated almost a month ago! However, airmail was not a priority right now, even if it did boost morale. Jack’s eyes flew over Rita’s carefully penned words, knowing it would have taken a lot of courage to reply.

Rita was a good letter writer and Jack was looking forward to what she had to say. Smiling, he noted that she did not miss anything out, giving him all the local gossip, even telling him things that would not usually interest him – however, even the most trivial news was now of the utmost importance. He needed something to focus on, something to keep his mind occupied when he was off duty. Winco the cat was quite big now and had proved himself adept at keeping the ship’s rat population in check as well as boosting morale. Jack knew that the officers were turning a blind eye, but he thought that he would probably have to find a new home for the cat when he finally reached land – if he ever reached land. The cat was a good distraction, and instead of the never-ending seascape of grey, Jack would dream of Rita, beautiful, unreachable, untouchable Rita. However, if every day were like today, it would all be worth the long agonising wait to go home.