The Lost Days of Summer (34 page)

‘I wonder what Auntie Vera will say if she does get it,’ Lou said idly as they turned into the court and approached the house. ‘One thing is certain, she won’t back down; she’ll probably say she hasn’t got the flu at all, but some other ailment.’

Both girls were laughing as they entered the house and went down the hallway, but before they opened the kitchen door Kath put a hand on her sister’s arm. ‘Hang on a minute, queen; what’s that funny smell?’

Lou’s nose wrinkled. ‘It smells like burnt cabbage,’ she remarked distastefully. ‘If Mam is making blind scouse then I vote you and me go down the Scottie and get ourselves fish and chips. We need a decent meal after slaving away in the wards all day.’

‘It’s not like our mam to feed her family on blind scouse whilst she can wheedle some red meat out of the butcher . . .’ Lou was beginning, then stopped short as she swung the kitchen door open to reveal Annie Ripley slumped in a chair, whilst a great black pan boiled over on the stove.

Both girls started forward as their mother looked up and tried to smile. ‘Tek the pan off the fire, there’s a good girl,’ she croaked. ‘That’s smell’s enough to turn anyone’s stomach. I went into the scullery to bring through some veg, and – oh, God, I felt right queer and had to sit down for a moment.’

Lou rushed across the room, snatched the pan off the flame and peered at the smoking, stinking contents, then carried the pan over to the sink and dumped it on the draining board before returning to her mother’s side. Over Mrs Ripley’s white-streaked fair head, the sisters’ eyes met; Lou looked the question which was in both their minds and Kath nodded. ‘It’s the flu all right,’ she said in a low tone. ‘We’ve got to get her upstairs; bed’s the best place for her.’ She looked down at her mother’s bulk, then went over to the sink and soaked a tea towel in cold water. ‘You’ve got the flu, Mam, in case you haven’t already guessed,’ she said, mopping the sweat which was now streaming down the older woman’s scarlet face. ‘Are you game to try to get up the stairs? Only the best place for you is bed and I don’t think Lou and myself are strong enough to carry you.’

Ill though she undoubtedly felt, Annie Ripley gave a small, exhausted chuckle. ‘You’re right there, queen,’ she whispered. ‘You’re right about bed, too, ’cos I aches all over; I feel as if I’d been run over by a coal wagon. But I’ll get up them stairs if I have to crawl, and once I’m between the sheets I’ll have a nice cup of tea, ’cos one minute I’m burnin’ hot and the next freezin’ cold. But my old mam always said a cuppa would cure anything.’

Helped by her daughters, she heaved herself to her feet and tottered across the hallway, but when she began to try to climb the stairs Kath stopped her. ‘You’ll be best going up backwards and sitting down,’ she said. ‘I’ll get behind you, put my arms round you from the back and give you a bit of a heave, whilst Lou will lift your feet and legs. That way, you should arrive on the landing with enough strength to get to your bedroom.’ Both girls took up their positions and Kath gave Lou an encouraging smile. ‘Off we go then; ready, steady, heave!’

The days that followed were a nightmare. More than half the occupants of Kingfisher Court caught the flu, and those fortunate enough to escape the infection were run off their feet. Kath and Lou worked at the hospital whenever they could until it became more important to nurse relatives, friends and neighbours back to health. In Liverpool, as in the rest of the country, the death toll steadily mounted and one of the first to go was Aunt Flo, who slipped quietly away before the family had realised she was ill.

Mrs Ripley, on the other hand, survived, despite being ill for so long that her daughters were secretly convinced she could not possibly recover. ‘Though she’ll be a while regaining her strength, and will probably never be as fit as she once was,’ the doctor warned the three sisters when he called on them. ‘You girls should be thanking your stars that you never got the infection, despite nursing your mother and most of the occupants of Kingfisher Court.’ He was an elderly man, but he smiled at them, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Maybe nursing the sick gave you some sort of immunity, I don’t know. I’m just grateful for all your help.’

Kath and Lou exchanged a wry glance. Trixie had kept out of the way most of the time, though she had joined wholeheartedly in the rejoicing on Armistice Day. At eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month the war officially ended and Trixie, decked out in red, white and blue, had attended street parties, parades and even church services of thanksgiving. Kath, remembering how Trixie had shot out of the house as soon as it seemed likely she would be asked to help, felt inclined to point this out to Dr Lewis, but held her tongue. No point in tale clatting; no point in antagonising Trixie, either.

As soon as they were able, Kath and Lou returned to the hospital, for they needed their wages and, though no one spoke of it, the girls had tacitly acknowledged that their mother would probably never work again. The bakery would miss her sorely – and she would miss her weekly wage packet – but Mrs Ripley was past sixty and the girls dreaded a recurrence of the infection; if she got it again, they knew it could easily prove fatal.

Now that the war was over and the troops were coming home, however, life would surely begin to return to normal, although rationing would have to continue for a while, even though the convoys carrying essential food from America and Canada need no longer fear the wolves beneath the waves, as the German submarines were called.

‘And the post is in a tremendous muddle, what with the flu epidemic and the troops trying to get home,’ Lou pointed out. ‘I’ve not had a letter from Fred for weeks, but then you’ve not heard from John, have you? I dare say the first we’ll hear from them will be when they turn up on our doorstep.’

Kath agreed that this was probably so, but nevertheless she began to worry when no correspondence from John came her way, despite the fact that November was half over. John was an excellent correspondent, writing every two or three days, but a soldier returning to the court to be nursed back to health by his family had told her that a good many troops were being sent to Germany, as part of the army of occupation. ‘They say the Germans are worse off than us because of the blockade of their ports,’ he explained. ‘If you think our rationing is severe, you ought to see theirs! Why, even their bread is rationed, and that’s when they can get hold of it, which ain’t often. They’ve been so perishin’ busy trying to win the war that they’ve not bothered to grow so much as a field of turnips. They’re starving, I tell you, starving to death . . . old folk, little children, even the troops. It’ll be the end of them poor bloody Huns, I’m tellin’ you.’

Then, one night, shortly after this conversation, Kath had a curious dream. She dreamt that she was sitting in front of her dressing table mirror when she saw a figure reflected in the glass, just behind her shoulder. Her heart gave a great bound, for it was John, and though he looked tired and dirt-streaked he smiled at her lovingly. Immediately she spun round, only to find no one there. When she faced front again there he was, and she realised in the illogical way one does in a dream that he was only visible to her as a reflection and she must not try to touch him unless he told her she could do so. This did not worry her at all, for she was sure that presently he would tell her to turn round and then he would be not just a reflection, but a flesh and blood man, eager to take her in his arms.

‘Oh, John, my darling, I’ve been so worried, imagining dreadful things . . .’ Kath said eagerly, but he put a finger to his lips.

‘I can’t write; not yet at any rate, cariad,’ he said slowly, and Kath thrilled to the sound of his deep Welsh voice. ‘But I’ll be all right; I’ll survive. Don’t ever leave me . . . leave me . . . leave me . . .’

His reflection was fading and Kath jumped up from the little stool on which she had been sitting, convinced that if she moved fast enough she could catch him before he disappeared. But in rising to her feet she had knocked the stool over and now the clatter woke her and she found that she was standing beside the dressing table, having clearly walked in her sleep from the comfort of her bed to perch on the hard little stool.

Climbing back into bed again and pulling the covers up round her ears, she tried to analyse the dream, but could only conclude that John had been thinking of her and she of him. So that’s all right, she told herself drowsily. I
knew
he was all right; if he hadn’t been, my dream would have been quite different. And on that thought she fell asleep and slept soundly till morning. Waking, she remembered sleep-walking, but the dream had gone completely.

As November advanced, the weather grew steadily colder, and because Annie Ripley had still not reached anything like her full strength Kath, Lou and Trixie took it in turns to get up early, blow the fire into life, take a cup of tea up to their mother and start breakfast. This meant that when Annie did get up, the porridge would be cooked, the tea brewed and the kitchen pleasantly warm. Knowing her youngest sister of old, Kath, who had suggested the scheme, had been prepared for Trixie to say she could not possibly get up even earlier than she did at present. But though Trixie moaned, she agreed to do her share. ‘After all, the nursing you do is a lot harder than standing behind a counter all day,’ she had said when Kath and Lou had outlined their plan. ‘Only you’ll have to give me lessons in making porridge, because the only time I’ve tried it came out all lumpy.’

Her sisters had laughed but Kath, who was an excellent cook, had watched over Trixie’s attempts and very soon the younger girl became more confident. After she had mastered porridge, she learned to bake scones and make pastry and Kath had told her, teasingly, that even if her husband-to-be did not fall for her pretty looks, he would certainly appreciate her cooking.

So the morning after Kath had walked in her sleep, she came into the kitchen to find Trixie pulling the porridge pan off the heat and preparing to carry a large cup of tea to their mother. ‘Shall you take the tea up to Mam, Kath, while I toast the bread? Or would you rather do it the other way round?’

Kath peered into the porridge saucepan and nodded appreciatively. ‘You’re getting to be a really good little cook, queen,’ she remarked. ‘I’ll take the tea, then I can give Mam a hand down the stairs. I don’t want to disturb Lou; she’s on nights for the whole week and has barely been in bed half an hour. I can manage Mam myself, now she’s so much better, but I don’t believe you could.’

‘Thanks, Kath. I’ll pour the porridge out so it can be cooling while you bring Mam down,’ Trixie said gratefully. ‘Oh, how I wish it was tomorrow! It’s my day off and I could perishin’ well do with it. I’m on me feet all day and precious little thanks I get, but I’ve thought for a while I might look about me for another job, something more interesting, like.’

Kath, heading for the hall and stairs, looked doubtful. ‘With the troops coming back by the thousands all needing work and a living wage, it’s going to be terribly difficult for women to get work,’ she observed. ‘Still, no harm in looking.’

Her mother beamed at Kath as her daughter entered the room and snuggled her shawl closer to her chin. ‘Eh, you girls spoil me and don’t I enjoy it?’ she said, taking the proffered cup of tea and draining the mug. ‘And I smell porridge . . . and toast! Pass me my slippers, there’s a good girl.’

Fifteen minutes later, Kath was helping her mother to descend the stairs when someone knocked at the front door. Kath opened her mouth to shout for Trixie, but her sister must have heard the knock, for she erupted from the kitchen and went to the door, whilst Kath and her mother continued their slow progress down the stairs.

‘I expect it’s the postman . . .’ Kath was beginning hopefully when Trixie threw the door open and she saw a tall man in khaki standing on the doorstep. She gasped, whispered, ‘John! Oh, Johnny . . .’ and then saw Trixie hurl herself into the man’s arms with a cry of delight even as she recognised him. It was Owain. Kath clutched the banister, and over Trixie’s head she saw his expression and knew why he had come. She gave a little moan and just managed to get her mother down the remaining stairs before she felt the soft rush of cold air from the open front door against her face and fell in a crumpled heap on the hall floor.

September 1940

There was complete silence in the firelit kitchen; you could have heard a pin drop. Nell glanced quickly at her aunt’s still, white face, then looked away. Such pain! Kath’s blue eyes were tear-filled, her mouth trembled, and in her lap her hands were gripped so tightly that the knuckles gleamed white as bone, yet not a tear fell and presently she resumed her story, her voice steady.

‘I expect you guessed, as I did, that Owain had come to tell me that . . .’ for the first time, her voice was not quite steady, ‘that John was dead. I’d told Mam some time before that John and I meant to marry, and of course Lou knew, but Trixie didn’t. She was very sweet to me, because I was ill for several weeks. The doctor said it was exhaustion, but never mind that. I got better, returned to nursing, tried to pick up my life again . . .’ She paused, looking thoughtfully at Nell. ‘I wonder if you can understand? You’re so young . . . you’ve had so little experience of life . . .’

‘I should think you were living in a sort of nightmare,’ Nell said rather timidly. ‘What are those things called which seem alive but are really dead? Like one of those.’

Kath nodded. ‘Zombies,’ she said. ‘You aren’t far out at that. Everyone was very kind, and the kindest of all was Owain. He had to go back to Ty Hen, of course, but he must have spent three days a week there and four in Liverpool for what remained of 1918 and the early months of 1919, and in March he asked me to marry him. You could have knocked me down with a feather, because I knew that everyone, including Trixie herself, thought of him as her beau, even though by the time he proposed I had realised that he was growing very fond of me.’

‘And did you return his feelings?’ Nell said quietly, when the silence after her aunt’s last remark had stretched. ‘Well, you must have done, because you married him.’