Darkest Before Dawn (33 page)

‘Is he going to India, like Toby?' Evie said, then clapped her hand guiltily to her mouth. ‘Oh, goodness, I'm not supposed to say that, am I? But I expect you and your feller have some sort of code so he can tell you where he's going.'

Evie had put her bag down again as they spoke and now bent to pick it up once more, and Lizzie seized one of the handles. ‘I'll give you a hand with your marketing, love,' she said. ‘I'm on me way home for a forty-eight but my train doesn't go for another two hours, so I thought I'd pop in and say hello to your mam. It were a bit of luck meeting you, though, because I've no idea where your mam's shop is and they say the Scotland Road is a real long one.'

‘Well, we're here, 'cos the next shop is Wilmslow's, where me mam works,' Evie said joyfully. ‘Our flat's over the shop, but I expect Toby told you that. And you'll be just in time for a cup of tea and whatever we're having for supper. You know Seraphina's in the air force, same as her husband?'

‘Aye, and Angie's in my little lot. We were real astonished when Toby told us Seraphina were married,' Lizzie admitted. ‘We always thought them two would make a go of it – Toby and Fee, I mean – but I dare say it wouldn't have worked out.'

‘You're probably right,' Evie agreed. She swerved round the corner and began to ascend the staircase. ‘Oh, it's grand to see you again, Lizzie. We've only had one letter from Toby and that took weeks and weeks to reach us. But Mam says things like that happen in wartime and we just have to make the best of it. C'mon; Mam's in the kitchen, I hear her clattering pans. She'll be that pleased to see you!'

Chapter Ten

Christmas 1940

Martha and Evie went to the station to see Lizzie off after they had fed her with a home-made vegetable pie, a pile of mashed potatoes, and stewed apple and custard to follow. They were back in the flat and settling down for a cosy evening at their own fireside when they heard the familiar sound of the air raid siren. Evie sighed and began, hurriedly, to finish her row, for she was still knitting squares for blankets, though she was doing so a good deal more efficiently than she had done at the beginning of the war. Martha was knitting too, making a pretty bedjacket for her employer's wife. ‘I wish I could knit like you, Mam,' Evie said wistfully. ‘Your needles go so fast they almost disappear, yet you never lose a stitch, or mess up that pretty pattern. Will you finish it by Christmas Day, do you think? Mr Wilmslow will be awfully disappointed if you don't because it's his Christmas present to Mrs Wilmslow, isn't it?'

Martha nodded, her needles flying even faster as she, in her turn, finished the row she had started. ‘Yes, that's right, and I'll finish it easily; I might even do so tonight if we're stuck in that perishing shelter for hours and hours,' she observed, tucking her work into her knitting bag.

Evie got to her feet, sticking her needles through her ball of khaki wool, and dropping it into her mother's bag. ‘What'll we do now, Mam? Is Mr Wilmslow on duty already, or will he wait for you to arrive before he goes off?'

‘He'll wait for me to arrive, so I think we'd best go down to the shop first,' Martha decided. ‘I'll make sure Mrs Wilmslow is comfortable – or as comfortable as can be expected – and then I'll come with you to the shelter. After all, it would be perfectly possible for Mrs Wilmslow to join us if she wished. Her husband went to a lot of trouble to get her a wheelchair and the shelter isn't that far away, but she's made up her mind she's safer in her own place, and if that's how she feels, there's nothing anyone can do about it.'

‘Well, why don't we stay here too?' Evie asked hopefully.

Martha knew her daughter hated the dank mustiness of the big public air raid shelter, and though bunks and blankets were provided she always took extra bedding and made sure that Evie was well wrapped up before they set out. Nevertheless, by the time the raid ended everyone was always cold, stiff and eager to get back to their own beds, if only for an hour or two. Despite the discomforts, however, Martha was in no doubt that the shelter was the safest place to be, and she gave Evie's suggestion short shrift. ‘We'll go to the shelter,' she said at once. ‘It's made of reinforced concrete and is mostly underground anyway, which means it's a good deal more secure than either the flat or the premises behind the shop.' As she spoke, she had been collecting what she called her air raid bag, tipping boiling water from the kettle into the big flask, and supervising Evie into her thick outdoor coat, scarf, woolly hat and gloves. ‘Be a pet and fetch me that half-loaf from the bread bin, the pot of rhubarb and ginger jam, and the bread knife,' she said, bustling about. ‘Honestly, a few days' freedom from raids and I forget how important it is to be prepared.'

‘You sound like a boy scout, Mam,' Evie said with a giggle, shoving the loaf, the pot of jam and the bread knife into the canvas bag. She cocked her head, listening intently. ‘Oh, do hurry, Mam. I can hear that thrum thrum which the bombers make as they cross the Irish Sea!'

Martha listened but could hear nothing. However, she was well aware that Evie's acute hearing could pick out such sounds long before she herself was aware of them, so she snatched her coat off the hook, ran over to shut down the front of the stove, and then hustled her daughter out of the flat, being careful to switch off the light before opening the door.

Mr Wilmslow was crossing the back yard as they descended, obviously waiting for them and eager to be off. ‘She won't let me take her down to the shelter,' he said wearily, ‘but mebbe she's right. She's terrified of being buried alive. She says even if it weren't hit, being stuck in there, breathing the same air as half Liverpool, would likely give her pneumonia, so I've given up trying to persuade her to see sense.' He smiled rather ruefully at Martha, raising one sandy brow. ‘Imagine what me life 'ud be like if I shovelled her into the wheelchair, then slipped on them damned slithery steps while I were carrying her into the shelter and broke her leg or her arm or something. Imagine if she did catch a cold . . . only it 'ud be influenza . . . the mind boggles, don't it? No, we'll leave her in her own home since that's what she truly wants. I've done me best to make her comfortable and I've promised her I'll nip back if there's a lull, but if you can just pop in for a moment and make sure she's got everything she'll need . . .'

Martha could hear the planes herself now and glanced round rather wildly, then handed the canvas bag to Evie. ‘You go down to the shelter, love; I'll follow as soon as I've seen to Mrs Wilmslow,' she said briskly. ‘Go along now, and hurry.' She jerked her head towards the sea. ‘It sounds to me as if this is going to be a big raid, so the sooner you get inside that shelter, the better I'll be pleased.'

Evie looked rebellious, but Mr Wilmslow took the canvas bag from her and put a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘I'll walk you down there, see you safe inside,' he promised. ‘Your mam will be following you in no time at all. Come along now, gerra move on, young lady; us wardens like to be on duty before the raid starts.'

Martha watched the pair disappear round the corner of the house, then ran towards the back door. She let herself in, closed the door behind her and went through the small kitchen into the living area, where Mrs Wilmslow lay in her large bed, propped up by pillows and with her wireless set, a flask, a cup and a packet of sandwiches neatly arranged on the small side table. She was reading a woman's magazine but put it down as soon as she saw Martha. ‘Well, I'm glad you've got here at last,' she said peevishly. ‘You needn't tell me there's a raid on because my dear husband lit out as soon as the siren went, ages ago. He has no time for me when he can go off and take care of other folk, I'm telling you. There was me, desperate for the toilet, but would he give me a hand? No, he was too busy making himself a cup of tea and naggin' me to put me coat on and let him push me through the streets like a perishin' freak show. I've telled him over 'n' over that I won't go making an exhibition of meself, but does he listen? No, he don't . . .'

Although Mr Wilmslow had many faults, he always treated his wife with gentleness and consideration, but Martha knew the uselessness of trying to make Mrs Wilmslow appreciate her husband's attentions. Instead, she went swiftly towards her, snatching the other woman's pink dressing gown off the foot of the bed. ‘Mr Wilmslow couldn't have realised you needed the toilet,' she said gently. ‘I'll just help you into this . . . where are your slippers?'

‘They're under the bed,' Mrs Wilmslow said grudgingly. She pushed back the covers and began to struggle towards the edge of the mattress. She was pitifully thin, her limbs so twisted with arthritis that Martha always handled her with great care, realising every time she saw her out of bed that the constant pain she suffered must be the reason for her ill temper and continual nagging. With great care, therefore, she inserted the thin, twisted feet into the brown felt slippers, then put an arm round the older woman and almost carried her across the room and through the narrow doorway into the tiny WC. Once, it had been outside, but Mr Wilmslow had blocked up the outer door and knocked out a part of the wall so that his wife could enter it without having to brave the elements.

Martha saw Mrs Wilmslow settled, then went back into the kitchen to check that everything was as it should be. The fire was banked down and Mr Wilmslow had laid a breakfast tray for his wife so that he would be able to make her porridge, tea and toast next morning before starting his day's work. Martha nodded to herself, satisfied, then remembered the commode. If it was placed directly against the bed, Mrs Wilmslow could, in an emergency, get on to it and then return to her pillows without help. It was not easy for her, but it was infinitely better than an attempt to reach the WC would have been. Martha carried the chair across the room and stood it on the far side of the bed. She did not think Mrs Wilmslow would need it again that night but she told herself it was better to be safe than sorry. She had just completed the task when Mrs Wilmslow's thin and quavering voice called her name, and she hurried over to the WC to attend to her.

By the time the old lady was back in her bed – and grumbling that Mr Wilmslow had left her sardine sandwiches, which she hated – bombs were beginning to fall, the tremendous crashes and bangs causing both women to jump. ‘They're attacking the docks,' Mrs Wilmslow said, sounding almost pleased, though God knew, Martha thought, the docks were a deal too close for comfort. ‘I wonder if I should gerrin that Morrison thing; what do you think, Mrs Todd?'

Martha hesitated. She thought it would be a good deal safer for the old woman since the Morrison shelter had been erected under the big old dining-room table, but it took a great deal of time to get Mrs Wilmslow – and all her bedding – into the rather cramped quarters and she knew that by now Evie would be dreadfully distressed by her mother's non-appearance, might even be worried enough to come searching. However, she was here now and did not much fancy making a dash for the shelter under such horrendous conditions, for even through the blackout blinds she could see the brilliant flashes as bombs and incendiaries rained down upon the city.

‘Well? What d'you think?' Mrs Wilmslow repeated rather plaintively. ‘I can't say there's much comfort in lyin' on the floor but I suppose it's safer.' Sighing internally, Martha agreed that that was so and began, once again, to help Mrs Wilmslow out of bed and back into her warm dressing gown. Before she had even got her on to her feet, however, Mrs Wilmslow had changed her mind. ‘No, I shall stay in my bed,' she announced, kicking off her slippers and beginning to unbutton her dressing gown with her poor twisted fingers. ‘You might make me a cup of tea, Mrs Todd, before you go off. Then I can save the flask for later, when I'm all by meself.' As Martha swung Mrs Wilmslow's legs into bed, the old woman added hopefully: ‘Only mebbe you'll stay till the raid's over, seein' as anyone going out there will be takin' his life in his hands.'

Martha cocked her head, listening to the crashes and enormous explosions which were making the night hideous, but when she spoke, it was firmly. ‘I'll make you a cup of tea, Mrs Wilmslow, but then I really must go, raid or no raid. Your husband took Evie to the shelter for me and I must join her as soon as I possibly can. Besides, you know what these raids are like; the aircraft come over in waves, so the next time there's a lull I'm afraid I'll have to go.'

‘It's too bad; Mr Wilmslow's got no right to leave a sick woman alone,' Mrs Wilmslow grumbled. ‘I've a good mind to come to the shelter with you, Mrs Todd.' She chuckled. ‘That 'ud serve 'im right. He'd have a good scare if he came back to find me gone.'

‘That isn't very kind, Mrs Wilmslow,' Martha said briskly, handing the older woman a cup of well-sweetened tea with a digestive biscuit in the saucer. She was well used to Mrs Wilmslow's delaying tactics, having suffered from them frequently in the past. If she gave her the slightest encouragement, Mrs Wilmslow would insist that Martha help her to dress and get her into the wheelchair with most of her worldly possessions in a bag on her lap, and would let herself be pushed as far as the outer door before suddenly changing her mind and making Martha put her back to bed. ‘Now just you drink your cup of tea and eat your biscuit, and before you know it Mr Wilmslow will be popping in to make sure you've got everything you need and very likely you'll go off to sleep and wake to find the raid is over.'

‘Aye, mebbe you're in the right of it. Get me a couple of them aspirin tablets out of the medicine cupboard in the kitchen; they'll help me to go off,' Mrs Wilmslow said.