It Had To Be You (3 page)

It was almost three weeks since Emma’s visit to the Ashcrofts’ house and she still had not made up her mind about when to visit Liverpool. She had thought much about what her grandmother’s feelings would be if she were alive and concluded that her reasons for preventing Emma from going to Liverpool no longer existed. Obviously the old woman had feared that if Emma had known the truth, then she might have followed in her mother’s footsteps and built herself a life in Liverpool and stayed there.

There came a sudden hammering on the door and Emma lifted her gaze from the numbers on the page of the open ledger and dropped her pencil. The
noise had a pattern to it that she recognised and, pushing back her chair, she hurried through into the front room and opened the door. As she had expected, Lila stood on the step.

‘What’s all the commotion?’ asked Emma.

‘The king’s dead!’ Lila’s pretty plump face was flushed and her grey-blue eyes were shiny with tears.

Emma sighed. ‘I know. It was on the wireless.’ She beckoned Lila inside.

‘I feel really upset. In fact, everyone I’ve spoken to is upset,’ said Lila, going through into the kitchen. She was about to sit down in front of the fire when she noticed hanks of wool on the chair. ‘Where’s that come from?’

‘I found it in a cupboard upstairs in my grandparents’ old bedroom. Gran must have bought it at a bargain price but never got round to using it.’ Emma gathered up the multicoloured wool and moved it to the table. ‘I thought I’d use it up,’ she added.

‘You know what the king dying means,’ said Lila, sitting down in the chair. ‘Change.’

‘Obviously. Granddad always said the king was a man who knew his duty, unlike his brother who was born to the role.’ Emma put on the kettle. ‘King George stuck by us throughout the war, when he and the queen could have easily gone to Canada with the princesses.’

‘The queen’s not the queen anymore, Princess Elizabeth is. She’s already on her way home from Africa with the Duke of Edinburgh. Imagine how she must be feeling with having been so far away when her father died. She’ll want to be with her family right now. It’s at times like these that you need your family around you.’ Lila dabbed at her eyes as her tears welled up again.

Emma thought of her half-sister and stepmother. She still hadn’t done anything about contacting them but Lila’s words caused her to wonder whether her father had brothers and sisters. Maybe they were still alive! And what about her stepmother, she must have family somewhere?

‘Princess Elizabeth is going to have little time alone to mourn her father with her having to fill his shoes,’ mused Lila, leaning back in the chair. ‘I wonder what kind of queen she’ll make?’ Her face brightened. ‘There’ll be a coronation, and that means parties.’

Emma nodded, just able to remember King George VI’s coronation the year after her mother died. There had been parties and she still had a commemorative mug on the dresser. ‘A coronation will take time to arrange because they’ll be inviting heads of state from all over the Empire as well as other countries,’ she said.

‘Most of them will probably have to attend the king’s funeral, as well,’ said Lila. ‘You can bet
there’ll be a lying-in-state for people to go and pay their respects.’

‘But that’ll be in London and all the newspapers will be full of it,’ said Emma, her expression thoughtful. ‘I might be best leaving putting an advertisement for bookkeeping work in the
Clitheroe Advertiser and Times
until the king’s funeral is over. In the meantime I think I’ll go to Liverpool. I might also buy myself a new outfit in the new midi style. I want to make a good impression and the blacks I have are so shabby. A new coat is out of the question but I think I must have a new frock.’

Lila’s eyes widened. ‘So you’re definitely going to go?’

Emma nodded. ‘Death can come so suddenly. Think of Granddad! What if my half-sister were to die before I got the chance to meet her because I delayed trying to find her?’

‘But she’s younger than you,’ said Lila. ‘You’re being really cheerful.’

‘We both know that the young can die as well. Remember Joan who died of scarlet fever?’

‘Aye, and I also remember Mam telling me about an outbreak of diphtheria that killed hundreds of children.’

‘Thank goodness, a vaccine was discovered that’s saved thousands of children’s lives,’ said Emma.

Lila agreed. ‘What will you do if your stepmother
asks you to live with them?’ she asked.

Emma shook her head. ‘I can’t see that happening. Besides, my home is here.’

Lila looked relieved. ‘I’m glad you feel like that, because you’re my best friend and I’d miss you.’

Emma smiled. ‘I’d miss you, too. Besides there’s a possibility that we mightn’t hit it off.’

‘But you might, and if that was the case then you’d want to see more of them,’ said Lila.

‘Probably, but my doing so would all depend on how often I’d be able to afford to travel to Liverpool.’

‘Or them coming here. I would love to get a peek at your half-sister and see if she looks like you,’ said Lila.

Emma removed the steaming kettle from the stove. ‘There’s a thought,’ she murmured.

Lila sighed. ‘I envy you making your own decisions. I really should be sticking up for myself and doing what I want instead of doing what Mam wants all the time.’

‘But you can’t be doing that while things are so uncertain at the mill. Unless you find yourself a husband, of course,’ Emma added with a smile.

‘Mam’s always discouraged me from having a boyfriend.’ Lila grimaced. ‘Perhaps I should start looking for another job in Clitheroe and I might meet someone there. But in the meantime, do you want to go to the pictures tonight?
The Man in Grey
is on, with James Mason and Margaret Lockwood. I love him. He has a real menacing air about him and sends a shiver down me spine. So what d’you say?’

‘OK! But it’ll probably be the last time for a while,’ said Emma.

Emma hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and stepped down off the train in Lime Street station. Jostled by other passengers as they forced their way past her in their haste to get to the ticket barrier first, she was spun round and felt her bag slide down her arm. She felt disorientated, what with the noise of hissing steam from the engine, the voice over the Tannoy announcing the time of the train to London, hurrying feet and people calling to each other. Then suddenly she realised her shoulder bag had gone and her heart began to bang inside her chest.

‘Don’t panic, don’t panic,’ she whispered to herself. ‘It’s probably on the ground.’

She stood stock-still and dropped her gaze, but her bag was not there and people were beginning to swerve to avoid her. One man swore, telling her to get out of the bloody way. Hurriedly she stepped aside and moved towards the edge of the platform, wondering if her bag had been kicked into the gap between the train and the edge. She knelt down but could see no sign of it. Could someone have snatched it? Her purse, hanky, library book and the letter from Lizzie Booth were inside it; her heart sank. At least there was not much money in her purse, but even so …

Emma felt sick as she rose to her feet and stood, dithering, trying to make up her mind what to do. This was a really bad start to her trip to Liverpool and she could not help recalling Mrs Ashcroft’s warning. Fortunately her return ticket was in her coat pocket. She looked towards the barrier and beyond to where high upon a wall was an advertisement for Taveners Fruit Drops and a huge clock, the hands of which stood at a couple of minutes past eleven o’clock. There was nothing stopping her from going home right now. Yet she was reluctant to do so after all the effort she had made to get here. She tried to cheer herself up by thinking that her bag might have been kicked along the platform and someone had picked it up and handed it in at the lost property office.

Her spirits rose slightly and she headed in
the direction of the ticket barrier and there she told the ticket collector what had happened. He commiserated with her but told her bluntly that he doubted she would get it back. Still, he directed her to the lost property office before turning to the next passenger waiting to get through the barrier.

Emma soon discovered that no shoulder bag answering to her description had been handed in and, feeling down in the dumps, she turned away. Oddly, her thoughts now were of her mother and she wondered how she had coped in this huge, bustling station when she had come to Liverpool all alone. Had she already known someone in the city? Perhaps someone she had met walking on the fells. Maybe Emma’s father on Pendle Hill? Had she fallen in love at first sight with him and followed him here? The thought of her parents meeting in such a way caused Emma to feel quite emotional.

‘Yous all right, queen?’ asked a voice.

Emma lifted her head and brushed away a tear with the back of her hand and turned to regard the owner of the voice.

The woman was wearing a figure-hugging red suit that had seen better days and a tatty white fur hat. Her make-up had been applied in a slapdash fashion, so that she looked a bit of a clown. Emma knew there was no way she could explain to her the
real reason why she had felt so terribly sad all of a sudden. Instead she said in a trembling voice, ‘My bag’s been stolen.’

‘Shame. Some people have no conscience,’ said the woman, who smelt of drink but had kind eyes. ‘Lost everythin’, have yer?’

‘I’ve still got my ticket home because I had that in my pocket, but I came here for a special purpose and don’t want to go home yet.’

‘I gathered yer weren’t from round here. Woolly back, aren’t yer? I had an aunt who lived up Blackburn way and she spoke just like yous.’

‘I was born here, though,’ said Emma swiftly. ‘My dad was from Liverpool but he was killed in the war.’

The woman heaved a sigh. ‘So was my fella. So where were yer aiming for, queen?’

‘I came here to find my half-sister. I had a letter with the address on but that’s gone, too.’ Emma sighed.

‘Can’t you remember where it is?’ asked the woman.

‘Oh aye! It was Whitefield Road,’ she replied.

The woman smiled. ‘Ha! Yer’ll need to get a tram or a bus that goes up West Derby Road past the Grafton dance hall and the Palladium picture house. Ask the conductor to put yer off at Ogden’s tobacco factory.’

Emma squared her shoulders. ‘I’ve no money, so
I’ll have to walk there. Can you tell me which is the quickest way to go?’

‘It’s a bit of a walk, girl, and yer could get lost. It’s getting a bit foggy outside.’ The woman screwed up her face and dug into her pocket and produced a sixpence. ‘Here yer are, queen, have this one on me.’

Emma stared at the coin on the grubby, white-gloved hand and was touched by the gesture. ‘I can’t take your money.’

‘Why not? My money not good enough for yer?’ said the woman belligerently, jutting out her chin.

‘It’s not that,’ said Emma hastily. ‘I-it just seems wrong. You don’t look like you have much money to spare.’

The woman smiled. ‘Looks can be deceptive, queen.’ She took Emma’s hand and pressed the sixpence into her palm.

Emma returned her smile and thought of fairy godmothers in disguise. ‘Thanks. I really appreciate this.’

‘Glad to hear it. Yer can get the number 12 bus in Lime Street or the 11 tram. Just cross the road. They stop in front of the lions guarding St George’s Hall.’ She jerked a thumb. ‘Just go that way. You can’t miss it.’

Emma thanked her again and headed off in that direction. Although still upset about her bag being stolen, her spirits were lifted by the woman’s
kindness, which belied what Mrs Ashcroft had said about the citizens of Liverpool. She only hoped that when she reached her stepmother’s house she would receive a warm welcome there, too.

As Emma came out onto Lime Street, across the road she saw a blackened building that reminded her of the Roman or Greek temples depicted in her children’s encyclopaedia. Spotting the lions the woman had mentioned on their plinths, she waited for a gap in the traffic in order to cross the road. She stood there for what seemed ages, hovering on the pavement, not prepared to take her life in her hands like some people who darted between vans, cars, buses and trams. Then she saw several people gathered on the kerb together, and as they swooshed forward onto the road, she decided to go with them.

On reaching the other side she joined a queue at a bus stop, aware of a feeling of nervous exhilaration. What if she got on the wrong tram or bus and ended up getting lost with only a couple of pennies to her name? Then a number 12 bus came along and she had no trouble getting on it. She found a seat downstairs and soon found herself having to repeat her destination several times to the conductor. He was obviously having some difficulty understanding her accent. Eventually he must have got the gist of what she was saying and told her that he’d give her a nod when it was time for her to get off.

She wiped a hole in the condensation on the window with her glove in an attempt to see the route the bus was taking, only to discover she could see very little. Still, there was no going back now she had come this far.

On leaving the bus, the conductor pointed her in the direction she should go. Fortunately she was not alone and followed in the wake of several other people along a cobbled lane. A large red-brick building loomed up on her left but she could see only a few yards ahead. The fog appeared to be getting thicker. Perhaps she should turn right round and go back into the city centre. What if she really did get lost?

Eventually she came to the end of the lane and was faced with a road going in two directions as well as another road that forked off the main one. She stood for several minutes, filled with indecision. Then she saw a woman, wearing a mackintosh and a headscarf, come out of a street and hurry in her direction.

‘Is this Whitefield Road?’ called Emma.

‘What’s that you’re saying, girl?’

Emma repeated the question and the woman nodded. Then she disappeared into the fog. Emma crossed the slippery cobbles to the other side of the road, where she noticed a pub and a shop next to an open space and then a street called Rothwell Street. She crossed to the other side of it and walked along
the pavement, peering at numbers above shop doors that were firmly closed against the weather. At least she appeared to be going in the right direction if the numbers were anything to go by, she thought. She passed a couple more streets, called Harewood and St Albans, and came to a row of long gardens with walls and gateposts but no gates. She could see what she assumed were houses looming through the fog.

Emma’s heart lifted as she came to the number on Lizzie Booth’s letter. She walked between gateposts and up a path that was uneven and slippery underfoot. The next moment she went flying and all the breath was knocked out of her. She lay gasping, unable to move. Then she tried to get to her feet, only to almost faint because of the pain in her foot and ankle. Emma waited until the world steadied before looking to see what had caused her fall. She noticed that the path was broken in places and moss and tufts of dead-looking grass had taken root in the cracks.

Now she was closer to the house, she could see that the front door was boarded up and so was the ground floor window. She could have screamed after coming all this way to discover that the house was derelict. She tried to get up again but the pain was so bad that she sank to the ground once more, unable to put her weight on her foot. Now she really did have a reason to panic. Were people living
in the other houses? Would they hear her if she cried out? Of course, there were shops nearby but they were definitely too far away to hear her shout for help. Yet surely someone was bound to pass this way sooner or later, so she should try. This she did, but the fog seemed to simply swallow up the sound of her voice and no one came.

She was really beginning to panic now because she could feel the damp seeping through her clothing. She must try and get up. If she could reach the gatepost and lean against it, she was more likely to be seen by a passer-by. She managed to stand but still could not put any weight on her damaged ankle. Her eyes tried to pierce the curtain of grey but all she could see was a stunted tree not far from one of the gateposts. She wobbled and stretched out her arms to help her keep her balance. What if nobody came and she ended up freezing to death? She shouted again until she was hoarse and beginning to feel quite desperate.

Then suddenly she heard a mournful wailing and a cold trickle of fear ran down her spine. What if the house behind her was haunted? She remembered that Liverpool had been bombed during the war. Could her half-sister and stepmother have been killed? Regret, disappointment and sadness mingled with her fear at the thought that she would never meet them.

She shivered and dug her hands into her
pockets. Instantly her fingers made contact with a box of matches. How had they got there? She remembered the story of
The Little Match Girl
that her granddad had told her when she was small. That little girl had been out in the snow and had kept lighting the matches to warm herself. In the end she had died after having a vision of her grandmother in heaven.

Emma began to strike the matches and at the same time to try and call for help. When a male voice shouted, ‘Where are you?’ she almost jumped out of her skin.

‘I’m in the garden of this derelict house,’ she croaked. ‘I’ve hurt my ankle and can’t walk.’

‘Stay where you are!’ ordered the voice.

Emma thought that was a daft thing to say when she’d just told him that she couldn’t walk. She remembered Mrs Ashcroft’s words and thought how vulnerable she was to attack right now. Then a figure loomed up through the fog and she realised that it belonged to a very tall policeman.

‘What on earth are you doing in here, miss?’ he asked, gazing down at her.

‘I came in search of my stepmother and
half-sister
who used to live here. I didn’t know the house was derelict,’ she replied, tilting her head so she could see his face.

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ he said, offering her his arm.

‘No.’ She reached out to him but lost her balance and yelped with pain as she fell against him.

The next moment he had swung her up into his arms. ‘I think it’ll be easier if I carry you. Put your arm around my neck and hang on.’

She would have preferred to stand on her own two feet but knew it would be stupid to say so in the circumstances. ‘Y-you’re not taking me to the police station, are you? I haven’t done anything wrong.’

He grinned. ‘First stop, the newsagent’s nearby. Need to get a bit of light on you and have a look at that ankle. Mr Mason also has a telephone if I need to make any calls.’

‘Thank you,’ she said shyly, ‘but I really don’t want to go to hospital.’

‘Who said anything about hospitals? I doubt we’d get an ambulance coming out in this weather,’ he said. ‘Besides, it could be just a twisted ankle or a sprain and I can deal with that.’

She clung to him as he carried her to the block of shops the other side of St Albans. It was a relief to get indoors out of the cold. She found herself being stared at by the man behind the counter. ‘Sweeping girls off their feet now, Constable,’ he said, pausing in his task of placing packets of Woodbines on a shelf.

‘Very funny,’ said the policeman, not sounding amused at all. ‘Where’s the chair you generally keep here?’

Mr Mason did not answer but lifted a chair over the counter and allowed it to slide slowly from his hands onto the floor. ‘What’s happened to her? Who is she? Haven’t seen her round here before.’

‘That’s because she’s from somewhere else,’ said the constable, lowering Emma onto the chair.

She sighed with relief and was now able to get a proper look at her rescuer. He appeared to be in his early twenties, and whilst not exactly having the looks of a matinee film idol, he was good-looking and had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Her heart seemed to flip over as he met her gaze and she lowered her eyes swiftly to her swollen ankle. ‘I’m not going to be able to get my shoe off,’ she said in dismay.