Читать книгу A Scent of Lavender - Elizabeth Elgin - Страница 10

‘It was good of you to go to all the trouble. Will you mind doing it again, next leave?’

Lorna sat on the spare-room bed, watching Ness unpack her kit.

‘Mind? No. Glad to be back, for all that. And I haven’t told you the news.’

They had been so occupied at supper, oh-ing and ah-ing over the amazing home-produced, hard-boiled eggs and trying to sweep the matter of William’s heated departure under the mat, that Ness’s gossip was still untold.

‘Anything new?’

‘There is! I was talking to one of the soldiers at the manor yesterday. Said he was in the REME.’

‘Electrical bods …’

‘Oh, ar? Didn’t enquire. Anyway, they’re getting the place ready for wounded soldiers – a convalescent home, he told me. Makes sense. There were a lot of wounded at Dunkirk.’

‘I see. So Rowley Wintersgill can rest easy,’ Lorna said tartly. ‘I can’t imagine men on crutches, maybe men who have lost a limb, rampaging over Glebe Farm land taking anything that isn’t nailed down, as he put it.’

‘Kate was quite pleased when I told her. At least there won’t be drill sergeants yelling orders, nor firearms practice. And talking about firearms, the Local Defence bods have got their uniforms. Bob and Rowley went to Meltonby to collect theirs. But no rifles, as yet, so what they’re going to stop them Jairmans with, I don’t know.’

‘Makes sense. The Army blew up our ammunition dumps before they left France. Our lot might be a bit short on rifles. But let’s not get back to the invasion.’

‘Fine by me. Saw Flora Petch on the way here. The baby arrived at Meltonby early this morning. She said being wakened up in the small hours wouldn’t have been a lot of good for me but better luck on the next leave. No more babies expected hereabouts – or none she knows about.’

‘Lucky woman. I wouldn’t mind a baby, Ness. Oh, I know starting a family in wartime – especially now when things are in such a mess – might not be the wisest thing to do, but if an accident happened, I wouldn’t care. Anyway, what else is news?’

‘They’re getting another worker at the farm. They’re still in need of help, and I know I’m not a lot of good to them. I said so, but Kate said to let her be the judge of that; said she wouldn’t mind another one like me. But there’s no chance of getting a land girl – not till they find another hostel around these parts to put more of them in.

‘So Bob got in touch with the Ministry of Labour, oh, ages ago. Had given up all hope of getting more help, then he got a letter on Saturday. Said there’s a man available, but it was up to Bob whether or not he took him.’

‘Why? Is he fresh out of prison,’ Lorna grinned.

‘No. Worse. He’s a conchie, and men who won’t fight are trouble. But Bob said he’d give it a try.’

‘Then he must be desperate! How are you going to feel, working with him, Ness? Don’t think I’d much like one of those working for me.’

‘One of those? I don’t think he’s a Nancy boy, Lorna. He just has conscientious objections to being in the Armed Forces. Maybe he doesn’t want to kill. Live and let live, eh? Kate said if there was any trouble he’d have to go, but that he might be a decent young man underneath. And Rowley smirked and said he’d see to it that the conchie would get all the dirty jobs around the place, and see how much he liked being a conchie then!’

‘Rowley makes me sick. He should think himself lucky that farming is a reserved occupation and he won’t ever have to join up!’

‘You don’t like him, do you? What’s he ever done to you, Lorna?’

‘Nothing. He wouldn’t dare. But he’s got a reputation for womanizing, and I don’t like that. Has he ever tried anything on with you, Ness?’

‘I told you he hadn’t. I can deal with him if ever he gets fresh. So what say we sit in the garden? I missed the garden over the weekend. I think that no matter where I go I’ll remember it, and Dickon’s Wood and the smell of flowers.’

‘Well, now you’ve got the smell of hens to add to your memories!’

‘They don’t smell; not if you clean them out regularly. Goff Leaman said that hen droppings make good manure and he’d clean our ark out every week if you’d give him the hen muck. I told him I’d ask you about it.’

‘He’s welcome, tell him and – oooh! The phone!’ She was across the room and down the stairs to snatch up the receiver with a breathless, ‘Hullo? William?’

Ness closed the bedroom door, glad for Lorna yet hoping William would say nothing to upset her. Lorna was trying to convince herself she had got the measure of her husband, and that from now on she would stand up to his demands and sulks. But the speed at which she had taken the stairs showed how pathetically eager she was to speak to him.

‘Everything all right?’ she smiled when a pink-cheeked Lorna opened the door.

‘Fine – if you’re meaning did he bring up the matter of Ness Nightingale again. He didn’t, so I took that as an apology for leaving in a huff like he did. Said he’d had a nice leave, though, and that he was busy getting his kit ready for the move tomorrow. I think he’ll be all right now he’s got a permanent posting. Said he’d let me have the address as soon as he got there. So do you still want to sit in the garden?’

And Ness said of course she did and was thankful, inside, that things seemed back to normal between Lorna and her man, and the matter of Ness Nightingale shelved, for the time being at least.

But just as Lorna seemed not to like or trust Rowley Wintersgill so she, Ness, had the same sniffy feeling about William. Nothing she could set her mind to exactly; more a feeling of trouble to come!

‘We’ll see if the hens have gone in to roost,’ she said as they went downstairs, ‘and if they have we can shut them up for the night.’

The hens, she thought, and the garden and the green-cool of the wood behind it and Ladybower and Nun Ainsty were so amazing to a city dweller like herself. Oh, she loved Liverpool to bits and the people and their sense of humour and the mucky old Mersey, but Nun Ainsty was a special place she would be glad for all time to have lived in and would remember for ever. And she was lucky to have found it when she was so in need of comfort and a new start, away from Liverpool. And from memories of Patrick.

She sat on the wooden bench beside the rose bushes, closed her eyes, took a deep, calming breath then said,

‘Them hens don’t smell, Lorna …’

It was all, in that moment of unguarded remembering, she could think of to say.

‘Well!’ said Lorna, turning off the wireless at the end of the news. ‘What does the government think it’s doing! Income tax up a shilling to eight and six in the pound – that’s more than a third of all you earn! And beer up a penny a pint! They just spring it on us without so much as a thought! Who do they think they are?’

‘They’re the government,’ Ness supplied. ‘They’ve given themselves emergency powers to do exactly as they want! Me Da’s goin’ to be sick over the penny on beer, though the income tax won’t affect him. He doesn’t earn enough to have to pay it. Maybe that bloke at the Exchequer thinks he’s Robin Hood, taking from the rich to pay for the war. ’Cause it’s got to be paid for, y’know. Imagine how much it costs when we lose a battleship or a fighter or a bomber. And think how much it costs to feed and pay all those fighting men.’

‘Pay, Ness? How much do you think a soldier gets? Next to nothing! The country calls them up whether they want to go or not, then pays them a pittance for risking life and limb!’

‘You, er – seem to know a lot about what soldiers get …’ Ness was surprised at the ferocity of Lorna’s reply.

‘Well I do, as a matter of fact. William told me exactly how much a private in the Army gets – after all, it’s his job to know. And will I tell you what a woman with two children whose man is in the Army gets? It’s thirty-two shillings a week. One pound twelve shillings a week, for God’s sake! And maybe her rent accounts for ten shillings a week or maybe her house is mortgaged, which is far worse! And then there’s coal and light! How is a woman who didn’t want her husband to join up expected to manage?’

‘Are you sure, Lorna? It’s a bad lookout, if it is …’

‘Look, I can tell you exactly how the Army arrives at that figure. They call a man up and reckon he’s worth seventeen shillings a week; they also give the woman five shillings for the first child and three shillings – three shillings! – for the second. And because that isn’t enough for hér to live on, they take seven shillings out of her husband’s Army pay to give to her without even asking! So the poor soldier is left with a few bob a week and his wife has to try to manage on one pound, twelve shillings!’

‘Ar, but the announcer gave it out that the Armed Forces are to get a rise – had you forgotten?’

‘How could I have? Sixpence a day is such a huge sum! So the poor private will probably make his pay rise over to his wife when he gets it. I bet she’ll be over the moon with an extra three shillings and sixpence, Ness!’

‘Hey up, queen! What are you getting so het up about? Life’s like that – always has been.’

‘I know. And how do you think it makes me feel? Grandpa left Ladybower to me and all his money and stocks and shares and things. It’s all invested, but it gives me an income of my own – and I pay tax on a part of it I might add. And I wouldn’t complain at all if I could say where my income tax goes and who shall get it – but I can’t! The war, like you say, has got to be paid for!’

‘So where would you have your tax go, if you could?’

‘I’d give it to a young woman in Meltonby. She’s got two children and was drawing her Army allowance at the post office when I was in buying stamps. The post office sells other things as well you know, and the other day they’d got sweeties to sell – rationed out to an ounce for each child. “Would you like a few dolly mixtures,” Mrs Benson asked the lady, but she said, “No thanks. Sweeties cost too much.” That woman probably thought that when everything was taken care of out of the one pound twelve shillings she’d just drawn, she hadn’t enough to pay sixpence for dolly mixtures. After all, sixpence buys two small loaves of bread!’

‘Ar. Poor kids. But I suppose you bought the sweeties for them?’

‘Of course I didn’t! How could I, without hurting her pride? Because when push comes to shove, pride is about all that woman has left!’

‘Well, for a lady who’s pretty well-heeled, you can do a very good imitation of a Bolshevik, might I say? And how did we get onto this subject?’

‘We got onto it because of a pesky sixpence a day rise for a man who is fighting for King and Country! And I’ll bet you anything you like he’d rather be at home with his wife and two little girls! And they aren’t called Bolsheviks now. They’re called Communists, and Joseph Stalin has just confirmed his pact of non-aggression with Hitler, did you know? And what an unholy alliance it is! Communists and Facists the best of friends and each not trusting the other farther than either could spit!’

‘Now see here, Mrs Hatherwood, you’ve got yourself into a real state! What’s to do, then? Time of the month, is it?’

‘I – I suppose it might be, but the dolly mixture thing happened last week and I keep remembering it and wanting to do something for that poor young woman.’

‘Well, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. Mind, you could offer her charity, but I can’t see that going down very well, can you – her pride, an’ all that?’

‘You’re right. Charity is a cold thing. But when I last saw Mrs Benson, she did mention that her postman is expecting his call-up any time now and she’s going to split his round into two. She’s got a man – elderly, he is – to do Meltonby and said if I knew of anyone who’d care to take on Nun Ainsty, she’d be glad to hear from them. The pay isn’t all that good – not for the few houses I’d be delivering to – but there’s the morning paper round as well. Easy enough to push a paper through the letterbox with the mail. I’m thinking of –’

‘You’d be deliverin’ to? You’re not thinkin’ of bein’ a lady postie and paperboy? Flamin’ Norah! What would Himself say!’

‘He’d say, as would most patriotic men, that I was doing the right thing by the war effort. I mean – young men have got to join up, so someone has to take on their jobs. Why shouldn’t I help out? I’ve thought for a long time I ought to be doing more to help the war effort.’

‘All right. You fancy bein’ a postie – so how’s that going to help the soldier’s wife who can’t afford to buy her kids a few sweeties?’

‘I don’t know, yet. I have a feeling her mother lives in Meltonby, too, so she might be willing to look after the little ones for a few hours a day – and let her daughter earn a little to help out.’

‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? You’re goin’ to do part-time work and if I’m not mistaken you’re goin’ to offer that woman a cleaning job? My, but there’s a devious side to you, Lorna Hatherwood! I wonder what William’s goin’ to say when he hears about it?’

‘Look – I haven’t exactly taken the postlady’s job, and I don’t even know the name of the woman with two children, so it isn’t all worked out – yet.’

‘No, but it will be! And how much will you pay her, then?’

‘I – I thought a shilling an hour – it’s the going rate. If I paid her two shillings a day for two hours’ work – five days a week that would be –’

‘Ten bob. Would be like she’d won the Sweepstake, wouldn’t it? Mind, when you find out who she is, she mightn’t want your charity.’

‘It wouldn’t be charity! And if she didn’t want to come, I’d still take on the job at the post office – if it’s still on offer, that is. I’m determined to do something other than be a housewife. And a pretty comfortably-off housewife at that! D’you know, Ness, if I wasn’t a married woman, I might just be seriously thinking about volunteering for nursing or even the Armed Forces. They do say that women who volunteer for the Army can do all sorts of things – like working on a gun site or being a despatch rider or –’

‘Lorna! What’s got into you? Had a rush of blood to the ’ead, have you? Why all this patriotism, all of a sudden?’

‘It isn’t sudden patriotism. And I don’t know what on earth has got into me, truth known.’

But she did know. She had defied William and got away with it and it was giddy making! And now she was thinking of doing part-time war work – and asking a woman whose name she didn’t even know to help clean Ladybower, five days a week. Heady stuff without a doubt!

‘No more do I, but a mug of hot cocoa might help – it’s getting cold out here all of a sudden. And then we’ll see to the blackouts and you an’ me can have another chat about your war work, eh? And I’m not going to try to talk you out of it, Lorna. As a matter of fact I’m proud of you, girl. Only sleep on it tonight? See how you feel in the morning – then have a word at the post office if you still want to do it.’

And she would still want to be a lady postie, Ness sighed as she bolted down the flap of the hen ark. And she’d still be willing to push morning papers through doors for little more money than she was prepared to pay her daily help!’

Mind, it was still all up in the air – a wait-and-see situation that well might come to nothing and no harm would be done. Though if she became Ainsty’s postie – and paperboy – and the soldier’s wife was willing to help out five mornings a week, then Lorna could be heading for trouble, because William wasn’t going to like it. Not even in the name of patriotism!

September, loveliest of months. Now the harvest was in and Ness still nursing her scratched and sore arms. Ears of barley, as she too-late discovered, bore needles that played havoc with unprotected flesh. Another year, she smiled ruefully, she would know to cover up!

Now, weary fighter pilots found it difficult to believe that the fury hurled against their stations was now directed at London. An amazing daylight raid on the capital had sent the War Cabinet into angry retaliation. Berlin, hitherto unbombed, received its first heavy raid. At night-time. Open cities, it seemed, were no longer to be immune to bombing.

Now, at Nun Ainsty, the leaves on the trees in Dickon’s Wood were darkening as autumn neared. In Ladybowcr’s garden, six hens were in full lay. Not what you could call large eggs, yet, but white and perfect and in the opinion of Lorna and Ness, very beautiful.

Minnie Holmes, soldier’s wife and mother of two, had gladly accepted Lorna’s offer of housework. She particularly liked ironing, especially if the wireless was playing Music While You Work; liked polishing so you could see your face in things; liked Mrs Hatherwood who was a very kind lady. Minnie particularly liked Fridays when she received the ten-shilling note that made all the difference.

For Lorna’s part, delivering letters to Nun Ainsty’s few houses presented no problem. She had been given the use of a red GPO bicycle on which she pedalled to Meltonby post office each morning to collect letters, small parcels and newspapers. Going to work was doubly enjoyable because she had never worked before. No one in Ainsty thought it strange that she had taken it into her head to do her bit for the war effort. Nance Ellery thought it admirable, though she was of the opinion that the Women’s Voluntary Service would have been more appropriate, the plum and green uniform would have complemented Lorna’s fairness and been far smarter than the trousers, old gardening coat and GPO armband in which she set out for Meltonby every morning except Sundays. For this Lorna was paid fifteen shillings a week which she promptly returned to Mrs Benson’s counter in exchange for a savings certificate – further to help the war effort.

With past experiences in mind, she had written at once to William, telling him of her need to do something useful and that she had given two hours’ work each day to Mrs Holmes, who was grateful for the extra money, as William, with his knowledge of Army pay, would appreciate.

… Nance approves of my job, though I think she was disappointed I didn’t join the WVS. I like to tell myself that perhaps my very small contribution to the war effort will bring you home just that little earlier.

Please write and tell me you are proud of me?

And amazingly, William replied that though there was absolutely no need for her to work, he was coming to accept that this was everybody’s war. There were even ATS girls at Aldershot and two women officers who ate in the mess, and were no trouble at all.

‘Thank heaven for that!’ Lorna breathed, determined that from now on she would make sure her husband was told of anything she did which might be considered out of the ordinary.

‘William seems to be settling in nicely at Aldershot,’ she said to Ness. ‘In his last letter he said it had been rumoured there could be promotions all round and it was fingers crossed that I could soon be addressing my letters to Captain Hatherwood! But whether or not it happens, at least he seems more – well – amenable.’

‘Good.’ And not before time, Ness thought, returning her concentration to the letter she was writing to her parents, hoping Liverpool would not soon be bombed like London, without mercy. Blitzkrieg, the Germans called it. More than a thousand civilians killed and London hospitals hardly able to cope with the wounded. And a new word blitz added to everyday language. Ness was sorry for London, especially for those who lived in the East End, and hoped with all her heart that the city on the banks of the Mersey would be spared such savagery.

Deliberately she turned her thoughts to Ainsty, where the only bombers to fly overhead were our own. When would the soldiers come? There was still activity at the manor. Surely it was ready now? The windows had been cleaned inside and out and she wouldn’t be surprised, she had remarked to Kate, if the place hadn’t been given a thorough going over as well, after all the years of dust and neglect.

‘They do things wondrous slow,’ Kate sighed, for Glebe Farm had still not received the man promised by the Ministry of Labour, though he was expected any day now.

‘And when he does get himself here,’ Kate said meaningfully, ‘he will not be referred to as the conchie, but treated as normal – even though he might have ideas some folk don’t approve of. He’ll be treated decent!’ She paused to glance across the table at her son. ‘Until he gives us cause to think otherwise of him.’

‘And if that happens he’ll be on his way, be sure of it,’ Bob Wintersgill had firmly wrapped the matter up, ‘and that lot at the Labour can find me some proper help!’

And the British – who now accepted how much so many owed to the few who had kept the invasion at bay this far – thought uneasily of what seemed to have been postponed until next spring; thought too of the second winter of the war which would bring the blackout with it and cold houses because coal was rationed and gas and electricity not to be used except when necessary.

It was at the height of the blitzkrieg on London that two things happened at Ladybower. William wrote to say he was coming on leave on September 7th and, to Ness’s shock and horror, it was announced on the wireless that Liverpool had been bombed.

‘Lorna!’ Her face paled, her eyes were wide with fear. ‘What about Ruth Street? What about Mam and Da, and Nan? God! What’ll I do?’

‘You’ll get on the phone at once. Liverpool isn’t all that far away. Maybe trunks will have a line. Tell Mrs B it’s urgent, ask her to do her best.’

‘But we aren’t on the phone!’ Did Lorna think phones were everyday pieces of equipment? In little houses like Ruth Street? ‘There’s a phone at the pub at the top of the street, but that’s all …’

‘Right! Do you know the number? No? Then we’ll ask for enquiries. They’ll tell us. And you’ll be going home, won’t you – we’ll have to get in touch with the forewoman at the hostel.’

‘Home? Y-yes, I suppose so – if I’m allowed.’

‘Of course you’ll be allowed, especially if – well, if your folks need you there. It’s called compassionate leave, Ness, and anyway, you’re due a week off, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Kate said only the other day it might be a good thing if I took what leave was due to me soon. Before they started lifting potatoes and things. But ring the exchange, Lorna? See if we can get the pub. It’s called the Sefton Arms – the landlord’s name is Rigby.’

‘Mrs B? Look, Liverpool has been bombed,’ Lorna whispered when the exchange answered. ‘It was on the wireless and Ness is worried sick. Can you get us the number of Rigby, Sefton Arms public house, in Ruth Street, Liverpool? Will it take long?’

‘No. I’ll ring you back. And tell Ness I’m sorry, will you …?’

‘Well, that’s got Mrs Benson on our side. And Ness, Liverpool is a big city; it’s unlikely the bombs have been anywhere near your home. More likely the docks …’

‘Ar. The docks. But you’d have thought Mam would have rung me here, wouldn’t you? There’s a phone box at the end of the street. If they’d been able, they’d surely have got in touch to let me know they were all right.’

‘Ness! No news is good news don’t forget and maybe there’s a good reason why they haven’t been in touch. There’ll be a lot of people phoning in and out of Liverpool since it was given out about the bombing. Maybe their trunk lines are extra busy at the moment. There’s all sorts of reasons for them not phoning. And put the kettle on? A cup of tea, eh?’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Ness whispered as if tea would put everything to rights. ‘And it’ll be all right, won’t it?’

‘Of course it will.’ Lorna ran her tongue round suddenly dry lips. ‘We’ll be through to the pub in no time, just you see and –’

‘But you said the trunk lines would be busy, didn’t you? Mam hadn’t rung me, you said, because there was probably a waiting list for long-distance calls …’

‘Yes – we-e-ll – that was only one reason! There are dozens of others. Maybe your folks have gone to relations.’

‘Without ringing me first?’

‘Probably. Do they have relations locally? Are they perhaps on the phone?’

‘There’s Uncle Perce and Aunt Tizzy. Perce is Da’s brother. They live over the water …’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Other side of the river. People call it living over the water. They might’ve gone there, but Uncle Perce isn’t on the phone, either. Lorna – what’ll we do?’

‘Like I said – kettle! Then, as soon as we’ve got a number we’ll put in a call. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. And I’m sure you’ll be allowed leave. We’ll get in touch with the hostel after you’ve phoned your folks.’

Long before the kettle boiled the phone rang and Lorna ran into the hall to lift the receiver with a shaking hand.

‘Yes? Mrs B?’

‘Hullo, dear. I have that number and I’ve booked a trunk call – is that all right?’

‘Bless you, of course it’s all right!’

‘Then if you’ve got a pencil and paper handy you’d better write it down, then fingers crossed it won’t take too long to get through.’

Lorna wrote, then whispered,

‘Thanks, Mrs B. We were just going to have a cup of tea.’

‘Then have one for me, will you? This switchboard’s going mad tonight. Thank heaven the post office is closed, that’s all I can say! Cheerio, now. Can’t stop!’

‘That’s the number of the pub.’ Lorna laid the scrap of paper on the table. ‘And Mrs Benson has booked the call already. She says the switchboard is busy tonight; maybe it’s the same all over. It’ll be all right, love. Try not to worry too much?’

‘No. I won’t. Bless you for being here, queen. I seem to have gone to pieces. Stupid, aren’t I?’

‘Of course you aren’t! And there’s the kettle. Sit down, Ness. Close your eyes and breathe in and out. I always deep breathe when I’m worried – and there you are! Phone! Go on then and answer it! It’ll be for you!’

Lorna smiled and stirred the tea in the pot. It was going to be all right. The call had come through quickly which only went to prove it was!

‘But why?’ Ness’s agitated voice came clearly from the hall. ‘But didn’t they say any more than that? Shall we try again, then?’

There was a pause, then Ness stood in the doorway, her face ashen, eyes brimming with tears.

‘Mrs Benson got a trunk line, but the Liverpool exchange said they couldn’t raise the pub; said the number was dead. Mrs B says she’ll keep trying, though. Oh, Lorna, what’s to do at Ruth Street? Has Mam been bombed?’ She sat at the table, head on hands, shoulders shaking.

‘Listen. Just because one phone number isn’t available, doesn’t mean your folks aren’t all right. Maybe there has been a bomb a long way off – one bomb can burst a water main and everybody for streets around has no water. And if the telephone cables have been damaged, even a mile away, it could –’

‘Listen! I’m goin’ home! Tonight! Now! And I don’t care what anybody says!’

‘No, Ness. By the time we can get you to York, the last train to Liverpool will probably have gone!’

‘I can try, can’t I? Maybe get as far as Manchester – pick up an overnight train?’

‘And what good is hanging about on a Manchester platform in the small hours going to do you? Drink your tea, why don’t you, then I’ll run you over to the hostel and we’ll tell them that Glebe Farm said it was all right for you to have time off. We’ll be on our way good and early in the morning. You’ll be in Liverpool by midday – bet you anything you like! And before you say what about my petrol, I can spare it – honest.’

‘But what about the letters and papers?’

‘The round won’t take five minutes! The GPO van from York delivers letters at the post office by six in the morning. The papers come early, too. I can have the lot done by seven if I shift myself.’ She laid an arm round the drooping shoulders. ‘I promise it’s going to be all right. Tomorrow at this time, you’ll be with your folks and wondering what you were worrying about.’

‘But what if the call comes while we’re out, Lorna?’

‘We’ll ask Mrs B if there’s been one when we get back, then try again.’ They could not, Lorna considered, spend all evening waiting for a call that might not come.

‘You’re a good sort.’ Ness lifted her cup in salute, a small uncertain smile tilting the corners of her mouth. ‘There’s more to you than a pretty face, isn’t there?’

And Lorna smiled, and lifted her own cup and said,

‘Come to think of it, I can be quite a bossy boots when I set my mind to it! And Ness – it will be all right. I promise!’

It was half past two when the train reached Lime Street station more than an hour late, yet Ness was never so relieved to see the place. Unswept, littered and crowded as most stations were these days, it was still good to hear the familiar Liverpool accent, know that just across the road she could get a tram that would take her to Ruth Street.

The ticket collector clipped her green travel warrant without saying a word or raising his head. Probably worried sick, just as she was, Ness thought.

The breeze that blew in from the Mersey brought with it not the usual river smell but a stink that was acrid and strange; the smell of bombing, was it? Of dust and debris and burning – and of death?

She cleared her mind of such thoughts. The tram was coming; green and brassy with a get-out-of-my-way air about it. Aggressive, sort of. The conductor clanged the bell, the driver swung his handle and they sailed past the soot-stained, sand-bagged bulk of St George’s Hall. Home soon.

Nothing changed, Ness thought. All right – so Liverpool had been bombed, but this brash and bawdy place was benevolent, too, and looked after its own as surely no other city on earth did. She was back, and soon she would know why there had been no answer to last night’s call; why her mother had not walked down the street to the telephone kiosk.

It struck her, all at once, that there might be no one at home, that Mam and Da and Nan might have upped sticks and gone over the water to Perce and Tizzy’s. On the other hand, they might all be lying unrescued beneath a pile of rubble.

She swallowed hard, recalling newspaper pictures of London’s blitz and men tearing at rubble with bare hands to rescue people entombed – oh, God! What a world!

She jumped off the tram, calling her thanks to the conductor, running towards Ruth Street and the Sefton Arms. And it had not been reduced to rubble. It stood there the same as ever. No broken windows, no damaged roofs. Lorna had been right. The docks had been the target. Ruth Street’s name had not been on any of those German bombs – not this time, at least.

‘Mam!’ she called. Her mother was there, putting out a milk bottle. ‘Oh, Mam, you’re all right!’

They ran towards each other, arms wide, and hugged and kissed and did a little jig on the pavement.

‘Well, it’s our Ness and don’t you look well, girl? Why didn’t you think to tell us you were coming?’

‘Oh, it’s a long story. It’ll keep. Put the kettle on, eh?’

Tomorrow at this time you’ll be wondering what you were worrying about, Lorna had said, and oh, my word, there was more to Lorna Hatherwood these days than met the eye. That haircut had done her the world of good!

‘Funny, innit, the way things work out,’ Ness said that night as they sat round the kitchen fire. ‘Yesterday they gave it out on the wireless that Liverpool had been bombed and today – here I am, and you’re all fine.’

‘You weren’t worried, girl?’

‘Mam, I was worried sick! And what’s to do with the Sefton Arms? We put a call in and the exchange told us that the line was dead – well, what would you have thought? And then I wondered why you hadn’t gone to the phone box to ring me. I tell you, if there’d been an overnight train, I’d have been on it! Were the phone lines damaged, or something?’

‘Nah!’ Nan put down her knitting. ‘That landlord should pay his phone bill a bit more reg’lar. Always gettin’ cut off, he is!’

‘Your nan’s right. More off than on, that phone at the Sefton Arms. Not to be relied on, Ness.’

‘But if there are any more raids, Mam, could you let me know you’re all right – nip down to the phone box? Oh, I know you might have to hang around a bit, but you just might get through straight away. Lorna would take a message if I was at work. Will you do that?’

‘Well of course I will – and did! Said to your Da that I’d give you a ring, just in case you’d heard we’d been bombed and were worried. No use, for all that. The coin box was jammed full of money. Couldn’t get any more in. I told the girl on the exchange that someone ought to shift themselves and empty it before some scallywag made off with the lot. Get the phone mended, too! And she said it was shortage of manpower, and she would do what she could. I tell you, this war has become the excuse for any old thing that goes wrong! “There’s a war on,” people say, as if it pardons everything!’

‘Ar,’ Nan nodded, taking up her needles again. ‘And if your Da’s goin’ to the Sefton, he can queue at the chippy on the way back. My treat.’ She nodded to where her son-in-law snored gently, newspaper over his face. ‘Give him a shove, Ness, there’s a good girl.’

So Ness told her father they had decided on fish and chips for supper and to remember to get them salted and vinegared before they were wrapped up, because it was never the same if you put salt and vinegar on when you got them home.

There wasn’t a chippy in Nun Ainsty, Ness had to admit, nor in Meltonby, either. Those two beautiful, hidden away, safe little villages didn’t know what they were missing, she sighed. But then, you couldn’t have everything, could you?

Relaxed now, she gazed into the fire, wondering what Lorna was doing. She would be all alone in Ladybower – until William came home on leave tomorrow, that was. And wouldn’t Himself be pleased to find the land girl had gone on leave? And why on earth had a lovely lady like Lorna married the likes of him? Why hadn’t she looked around a bit, tested the water a time or two instead of jumping in at the deep end, head first.

‘Hope your Da gets himself home from the chippy before the siren goes,’ Nan said, wriggling in her chair.

‘There won’t be a siren tonight. Not when I’m home,’ Ness sighed. ‘Oh, it’s absolutely beautiful at Nun Ainsty but it’s so good to be home, bombing or not. Didn’t think I could miss Liverpool so.’

Her Mam’s kitchen with its black-leaded iron fire grate, and Da, having his forty winks with the Liverpool Echo over his face, and her gran, always knitting. And vinegar-soaked, well-salted fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper!

It wasn’t until her father had left for the Sefton Arms, and Nan had gone to sleep that Ness was asked,

‘Are you all right, girl? I mean – is it getting any better? Oh, I know you joined the Land Army to help put it behind you and I can understand that, but was it worth giving up a good job for? I often think about what happened, y’know, and I sometimes feel you should have stayed and faced it out.’

‘No, Mam. I did the right thing. And I like it where I am. Ladybower is a beautiful house; very old with big rooms and a wide staircase. And Lorna is a love and Kate at the farm, too. And you said yourself I was looking well – in spite of the fact I’d been awake all night, worrying.’

‘So you’re getting over – things?’

‘Getting over Patrick? Yes. And Mam, sooner or later they’re going to call up women of my age. From twenty-one to twenty-five, it’ll be. Hairdressing is classed as a luxury trade now, so there’d have been no way I could have stayed at Dale’s much longer. And talking about my trade, your grey bits are showing. What say I give you and Nan a hairdo before I go back? And Da’s hair is in need of my scissors, an’ all!’

‘Well, I told him he looked like Shirley Temple with his hair so long, but he said he’d wait till you came home. You’ve spoiled him for going to a barber, you know. Says no one can cut his hair like our Ness.’

‘Spoiled him ’cause I don’t charge like the barber does!’ Ness laughed, relieved Mam had had her little say and that it wouldn’t be mentioned again – not this leave, anyway.

But getting over Patrick? There were some days she was shocked to find she had not thought about him at all, but there were other days when the hurt of it was still with her, keen as on the day it happened. Get over him? She would have to.

She lay wide-eyed in bed that night listening, she told herself, for the wailing of the siren, though really it was the strangeness of the little room that kept her awake. The bed she had once thought comfortable made her back ache, and though the room was very dark she knew that the walls pressed in on her and that if she drew back the blackout curtains and squinted into the night, there would be no outlines of rose bushes, nor of the wood behind them; no starbright sky that was wide and stretched for ever; no precious village built from the stones of a priory where lepers once came, in hope.

Outside her, in the shifting darkness, would be streets and rows of rooftops and rubbish-strewn jiggers because there was a war on and street sweepers in short supply. And outside, too, the city waited for an alert – her city, the place she was born in and grew up in and worked in. Liverpool was every bit as precious, in a roundabout way, as Nun Ainsty. Both equal in her affections. It was just that it suited her to live at Ladybower now, and work at Glebe Farm and be a land girl for the duration of hostilities, because that was what she had signed up for. And how long a duration lasted no one knew.

She closed her eyes and pretended she was in her bedroom at Ladybower with Lorna next door and the hens, secured for the night, on the lawn. William would be home tomorrow. Gawd …!

‘Thanks for the card, by the way.’

‘Thought you’d like it. View of the Liver Buildings with the birds on top. Sailors coming home, up river, can see them and know they’ve made a safe landfall.’

‘The Liver Birds. Fat and funny. Wonder what they’re supposed to be?’

‘Dunno. They’ve been there all my life and all Mam’s life, an’ all. People say that if ever they’re taken down – or are destroyed in the bombing – then Liverpool is at risk. And you’re saying it wrong. If you came from my part of the country, you’d call them the Liver Bayds. And when I left they were still there. There were no more raids, but at least I went home – saw they were all right.’

‘So you didn’t have to run to the shelter?’

‘No. And anyway, they’ve got their own, at home. Our house is old; built solid, for all that. When I was growing up, I always wanted Mam and Da to move out; get one of the little sunshine semis that were all the rage. I wanted a bathroom, see, and a garden at the back. Well, when you haven’t a bathroom and only a yard that opens onto a jigger, – er – alley, then of course you want a sunshine semi. But I was glad Mam didn’t say yes. Them little new houses don’t come with coal cellars, like Ruth Street’s got. You should see it now! Mam said that since coal was rationed she could keep all we were likely to get in the yard, and she set to and cleaned that cellar and whitewashed the walls. Uncle Perce works in a timber yard, and he got Da some hefty props, cheap, to support the ceiling, and Mam put old lino down and old rugs and bought a kitchen table in Paddy’s Market for two shillings – a big one. And Da shortened the legs so it was nearer to the floor and said that if the bombing got really bad, then they could all creep under it for extra protection. It’s the best little shelter in Liverpool. I reckon they’ll be safe enough, down there, even if Hitler decides to blitz Liverpool like he’s doin’ to London. But how did it go for you – and William?’

‘Just fine. We went to church last Sunday – it being a national day of prayer, of course. William was in his uniform and the Local Defence Volunteers were all there, in theirs. I didn’t do a lot of praying, Ness. I just knelt there and thought – about that tiny chapel and the hundreds of people who must have prayed there, over the years, for England.’

‘Ar. By the way, I knew it’d be all right to send you a card; that it wouldn’t drop on the doormat and get William upset like that letter did.’ Best get off the matter of religion. ‘I figured that you bein’ the postie, you’d be able to slip it in your pocket! Was William bothered about your war work, by the way?’

‘No, he wasn’t. Never said a word. And when Nance Ellery asked him if he was proud of me doing my bit, he said that yes, he was! I – I think he had things on his mind, things he hadn’t been able to leave behind him. I suppose he was preoccupied with that promotion he wants. Anyway, my week passed all right; quite enjoyable, in fact.’

Enjoyable, was it, Ness shuddered inwardly, when it should have been wonderful and full of love and kisses and early nights and – and –

‘Bags of passion, eh, Lorna?’

She bit on her tongue. She shouldn’t have said that. What went on between a man and his wife who haven’t shared a bed for weeks wasn’t open to skitting, and she was glad she had the grace to blush at her clumsiness. Or at least until Lorna said, quite off-handedly,

‘Oh, yes. Nothing’s changed in that department. The usual twice a week!’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘William and me, I’m talking about. We always do – er – make love twice a week; always did, right from the start,’ she smiled.

‘But twice, Lorna? Never once, or three times? I mean – has it got to be twice?’ She was missing something. She had to be!

‘We-e-ll, William and I were very frank with each other before we got married. It was good of him to consider my feelings, though I knew what went on in the privacy of the bedroom. You learn a lot, you know, at boarding school.’

‘Didn’t know you’d been away to school,’ Ness floundered, amazed at such directness.

‘When I was thirteen. Maybe Grandpa thought it was best – that I needed a woman’s hand. Gran had gone, you see, and I suppose he felt a bit awkward with a girl growing into puberty. And it wasn’t exactly boarding. I wasn’t all that far away; came home every weekend. Thought I’d told you. I was there for three years. Quite fun, really.’

‘So you and William talked about – feelings?’

‘Of course. He bought a book on the subject of – you know – and I put a brown paper cover over the jacket, just in case Grandpa picked it up. One of the things it said was that the average British man and wife made love twice a week – so that’s what we decided on. Tuesday nights and Sunday mornings.’

‘And that’s it?’ Ness had no answer to such directness, such ill-informed directness. Twice a week, come rain or shine, was it? ‘And always in bed, of course.’

‘Well, of course! Where else would you do it?’

Where else? Oh, Lorna, girl! Everywhere else you can think of! In bed – all right – but how about in a field in summer; how about on a hillside with not a soul for miles and only the clouds to see you? How about on a winter evening with a log fire blazing and the two of you on the hearthrug? It’s good in the firelight, Lorna …

‘Where else indeed?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ Now Lorna’s cheeks pinked. ‘Here’s me going on about things private and you not knowing! Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. And it’s quite nice, really – especially when every time you do it there’s a chance of a baby.’

‘So you still want children?’

‘Of course. It’s William who – who pointed out it wouldn’t be very sensible, in view of the world situation.’

‘Yes. Sensible, I suppose.’ Flamin’ Norah! How had they got onto the subject? And how could Lorna be so blind, think that what she and William shared was passion – or even love? And why, oh why was she sitting here, saying nothing when she longed to cry, ‘Wrong, Lorna! Loving and being loved can be so different!’

‘Anyway, now that you’re unpacked and you and I are back to normal, shall we take a turn round the garden? The hens will have forgotten who you are, Ness. And I didn’t tell you, William said the eggs were delicious boiled for breakfast though he won’t admit, yet, they were a good idea. I think he still secretly winces to see them scratching on his lawn. Now – blackout is nine, tonight. Shall we see to the windows, then have a stroll outside before it gets dark? And something else I forgot! Glebe Farm’s conchie came yesterday, late. And I shouldn’t have called him that! He’s probably a brave young man, sticking up for what he believes in. He’s probably had to take a lot of flack, not wanting to fight. I haven’t seen him yet. Goff Leaman told me – Goff’s been giving them a hand whilst you’ve been away. Anyway, you do the upstairs blackout and I’ll see to down here. And oh, it’s so good to have you back, Ness!’

Which was a very peculiar thing to think when your husband has just gone back to his regiment and you should be aching all over, missing him, wanting him.

‘Good to be back, queen.’ All things considered, she really meant it.

‘Good to have you back. Lorna said she’d had a card from you and that your folks hadn’t been hit.’

‘Great to be back, Kate, and yes – reckon I panicked more’n I should have.’ Ness waited in the kitchen for early drinkings. ‘But it was good seeing Mam and Da and Gran. I feel a bit better about things, now I’ve seen the air-raid shelter Da’s rigged up for them.’

‘I read in the paper this morning that London’s copped it again. Eighteen nights without a break; two thousand killed and heaven only knows how many injured,’ Kate murmured. ‘Said they were starting evacuating mothers and children – again. But save my legs will you, Ness? Nip along to the dairy and get me a jug of milk? And whilst you’re there, tell them I’ve made a brew and ask them if they want it in the shippon.’

Ness crossed the yard. Ahead of her the cow shed and the steady chuck-chuck of the milking machine. New-fangled contraption, Kate called it, though her husband and son had been set on buying it. Save hours of hand-milking, Rowley had argued, and he was right, Ness had to admit. And fingers crossed that machine would never break down because where would Ness Nightingale be, then? Stuck with her head against a cow’s flank, trying to squeeze milk out of the dratted animal!

‘Mornin’,’ she called from the dairy. ‘Just come for milk and do you want your drinking here or in the kitchen?’

‘Good morning to you, too.’ The voice was unfamiliar and Ness turned in her tracks.

‘Ooh! You – you’re the –’

‘The new farm hand. Michael Hardie – Mick.’ He held out a hand. ‘And you must be Ness.’

He was slim and dark, though his eyes were blue. He had a lovely smile, too. Look smashing in uniform, Ness thought. Pity he was a – a …

‘Ness Nightingale – that’s me.’ She took the hand he offered. ‘An’ – an’ I hope you’ll like it at Glebe.’

‘I already do. And they want drinkings in here. I was on my way to tell you. No sugar for me.’

He smiled again and Ness was struck by the way he looked straight into her eyes when he spoke, as if being a conchie came naturally to him and no way was he going to hang his head for it.

‘Right, then. Three teas it is.’

‘They want it in the shippon,’ Ness said to Kate, ‘and the – and Michael doesn’t have sugar in his, he said.’

‘So you met him? I know about his tea, and we call him Mick,’ Kate smiled. ‘He seems a decent lad, though Rowley and he have hardly exchanged a dozen civil words since he came.’

‘Ar, well,’ Ness tilted the teapot, ‘that won’t bother him a lot – Mick, I mean. I got the impression that people could take him or leave him. Pity, though, that him and Rowley can’t get on with each other. This war might last a long time.’

‘Oh, it’s our Rowley. He’s been giving Mick all the dirty jobs and it’s grieving him that it doesn’t seem to be having any effect. A nice-looking young man, don’t you think? Tall, and handsome with it.’

‘Nice enough,’ Ness smiled, placing mugs on a tin tray, ‘but I don’t fancy him.’

And with that she whisked out of the kitchen, having had her say and put Kate right – if Kate was matchmaking, that was.

‘Got a bit of news for you, from Ladybower,’ she confided on her return. ‘Lorna’s William told her, actually. Said there was a strong rumour in Army circles that Hitler has put off the invasion till next spring.’

‘And how do they know what that Hitler’s thinking, then? Rang up Mr Churchill, did he?’

‘’Course not! But it seems the tides aren’t favourable any longer; not until next April, or May. And it could be a fact, because William said that a message had been picked up from Moscow and it said the RAF had bombed the German invasion fleet and destroyed a lot of it.’

‘Now how do they know that? How can our lot tell what’s being said in Moscow?’

‘Haven’t a clue. Seems we have operators listening all the time; just scanning the airwaves and writing it all down.’

‘And do you believe it, Ness?’

‘I’d like to – about Hitler’s invasion barges bein’ bombed and the invasion put off for six months. An’ I’d like to think that when winter comes, there won’t be so much bombing of London.’

‘Ah, it’s a bad do, there. I’m glad that Ainsty doesn’t seem worth an air raid. And it isn’t just the East End that’s getting bombed. The posh bits are getting it, too – and Buckingham Palace has had another hit. Where’s it all going to end, will you tell me?’

‘Dunno, Kate. What I do know is that it must be awful to creep out of a shelter when the all clear goes and find your ’ouse is a pile of rubble.’

It was a terrible thought. There were times when she wished she knew how to pray, because sure as eggs was eggs, it was going to be Liverpool’s turn to suffer, just as London was suffering now. Stood to reason. Liverpool was a port. Before very much longer it could be backs-to-the-wall time in Liverpool, too.

So count your blessings she reminded herself sternly, silently, that you live and work in a backwater called Nun Ainsty, and can sleep easy in your bed at night and not in an Anderson shelter or in the Underground in London.

‘Ar, well – I’ll be off to the shippon to give a hand,’ she sighed, wondering as she crossed the familiar yard, how our lot could listen in to Moscow, and decided it was William, trying to sound important. It was at that moment that she looked up and saw ambulances at the back of the manor. Four of them.

‘Kate!’ She ran back to the kitchen. ‘Come and look – over there! They’ve come, then, at last!’