Saturday, 17 August 1940
Ruth moved a plate to the draining board. It slipped and clattered, falling to the side, too wet to sit neatly against another. She closed her eyes, leaning against the worktop, and took a deep breath. Picking up the plate she checked it for cracks, but the only marks were the faint black stains of wear that had been there since she’d inherited it. They were only just visible in the flickering candlelight. At least she hadn’t broken something more expensive.
There may be less work for her to do around the house while she was on her own, but there was also less help. Still, she could always do the housework later. Who was around to even notice? Her family never came anymore, not since Peter had gone. She spun her wedding ring around her finger with her thumb while she thought. He had more family in the city than she did, and her own family thought that he was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Their behaviour showed exactly what they thought of her. Deeds not words. Principles were something a woman shouldn’t have, according to her parents. If they could see her now they would simply tut and say, ‘I told you so.’ Oh well, she would show them.
She finished and dried her hands on a tatty towel that she then threw down on the worktop. Even with the sounds of her neighbours drifting through the adjoining wall, the house could be lonely at times. The faint murmur from next door made it feel as if it was haunted, the ghosts of past lives and stories lived permeating the very brick. Sometimes she wondered whether she was imagining it. Sometimes the echo seemed to come from all around her, even from the back of the house, which she now looked out onto. Their house was one of the usual terraced houses that lined the hills of the city. She had been told they were built around the turn of the century to house the influx of workers into Liverpool’s growing docks. Those were the sorts of stories that were passed down the generations, the kind she was fascinated by but her family had no interest in.
She tried to fill her days with stories and noise, but it wasn’t always easy. Her work gave her some opportunity, but she didn’t have free rein over her time. Her editor had other ideas.
The kitchen door creaked open behind her and she froze. She was sure that she had shut it and no one else was in the house. She didn’t dare turn around.
She grabbed a battered rolling pin from the worktop, her knuckles whitening as she gripped it tighter. After what felt like hours, she gave in, fearing what she might see behind her. Her gaze landed on the door, then dropped to where a small boy, about nine or ten, stood looking, frozen, up at her. At first, she didn’t recognise him. He was wearing a smart little brown suit and waistcoat that were far too clean for the streets of Liverpool. They did not belong to him and he looked uncomfortable, far from the dishevelled scamp she had last seen boarding a train at Lime Street station. The fact that the knees of his trousers were torn was not unusual.
‘George?’ she breathed. His features flickered in the glow of the candles. He looked nothing like the child she remembered: he looked posh. It was the only way she could describe it. It wasn’t that her family was poor, but the clothes he was wearing were a step above anything they could afford. Gone were his drab brown clothes. He had been close to growing out of them anyway. Where had they evacuated him to, exactly? Some country house? The address she had didn’t give her that kind of information and his letters had only mentioned the countryside. She had thought that he was safe, he wasn’t supposed to be in the city. What on earth was he doing home?
‘Hi, Mum,’ George said and grinned.
Realisation dawned that she had imagined that it was Peter, but there was no way that was possible. She would have known straight away if Peter had walked into the house, she would have been able to feel him, the warmth of him, rather than the uneasiness she felt now. He was still out somewhere with the navy, though she didn’t know where. He wasn’t allowed to say when he wrote to her, but he had left clues the censors hadn’t spotted in his letters. Written in a code only the two of them would understand. They had developed it when they were first stepping out, from their mutual fondness for word games.
Her mouth hung open and he just stared back at her, smiling that sweet smile of his. It melted her heart, as it always did. Some things never changed. He didn’t move, just stood as if he too couldn’t believe what was happening was real. He had grown in a few months and there was something in his manner that hadn’t been there before. She wondered whether, wherever they had sent him, he had been trained to stand to attention, and she longed for him to run to her so she could wrap him in her arms and keep him safe. She couldn’t move herself, lest the illusion was broken and she realised she was imagining his presence.
For the time being she took two steps forward and pulled him into her arms. He had grown an inch or so in the intervening time and it made it easier to sniff his hair. That scent had been missing from her life and she closed her eyes to breathe it in as a tear rolled down her cheek. There was no need for any words. She had expected him to pull away, but he nestled into her embrace.
Ruth had been given no warning that he was coming home. As far as she knew all the children were still evacuated to the countryside. She wanted to go down to the local Ministry of Health offices and ask what they thought they were playing at. The city was nowhere for them to be, especially the younger ones.
‘Sweetheart, what are you doing here?’
Had he run away? If so, how on earth had he had enough money to make his way back to Liverpool? The train alone would have cost a fortune.
‘They sent us home, Mummy. The other children too.’ He beamed at her again, clearly expecting a different response to the one she had given. There was an uneasiness there that belied his years, and he was trying to make up for it by smiling at her. The time they had spent apart had been difficult. She pulled him close, all her questions forgotten for a moment. He smelt different, fresh, nothing like the city.
‘They said the danger was over.’ The more he spoke, the more familiar his voice became, as if he was remembering himself and his surroundings, becoming her son again.
‘They did?’ she asked. How could they say such a thing? The French had just surrendered to the Germans, and now they were only just the other side of the Channel. If they wanted to invade Britain only the Royal Navy was stopping them, and who knew how long they would last if the entire French military had failed to keep the Germans at bay. They were either stupid, or they just simply didn’t care. The bombs would come soon. For a moment of panic she feared they’d somehow discovered her secret. ‘Who said such a thing?’
‘The family we were staying with. The Cartwrights.’ Ruth couldn’t help but notice the ‘we’ again. From George’s letters, Ruth knew there were two other children staying with him. They must have been sent home too. ‘They said if the Germans were coming they would have come by now, and not to worry.’
She could see what they meant, but knew it was untrue. From the sound of what George was saying they were merely trying to reassure the children, take away the fear they surely had for what was about to happen. What could she say? Now that he was at home, back in harm’s way.
‘I didn’t like it there,’ he continued, filling the silence. It was matter of fact, as if it was perfectly understandable that he shouldn’t like the place and that was that. ‘But that’s not why they sent me home.’
She found her voice finally, the catch in her throat gone and the initial shock starting to wear off. ‘What do you mean, they sent you home?’
‘Nothing, Mummy. I didn’t do nothing.’ He paused, his brow furrowing. ‘I mean I didn’t do anything.’
He wouldn’t have corrected himself like that before. The writer in her was proud that he was learning and breaking out of the local vernacular, but the mother side of her was sad that her son was growing and changing and that she hadn’t been around to see it. How much had she missed while he was in the countryside? She shook herself. That wasn’t the point. He shouldn’t have been back in Liverpool; who knew how long the war would last? Not that she was old enough to have lived through it, but the last one had lasted four years. They were barely a year into this one.
‘They were saying that we should come home where our parents can look after us properly. That they can’t keep paying for us. They argued.’
There it was then. The family that were supposed to be taking care of him had decided Liverpool was safe, as if because the Germans hadn’t yet attacked the city they never would. Some instinct told her it was only a matter of time before the Luftwaffe came. Somehow she would now have to keep her son safe. She would have a word with the authorities, see if she could get them to change their minds. Maybe if she pleaded with her family they would finally come to her aid, but she wasn’t sure she could deal with their knowing, smug looks.
To hide her tears she pulled away, took his bag and dropped it on the kitchen table with a thump. They could unpack it later together. He was about to close the door behind him, something else he wouldn’t have done a few months ago, when there was a sound from outside. At first it was like a low hum, the burr of something getting closer, then it burst into life.
The shrill cry of an air raid siren pierced Liverpool’s evening silence. Ruth was alert as her body tensed. She supposed it had that effect on everyone, but there was something about its scream that terrified her. What had once been tranquil evening air was now shattered by the oncoming darkness. The siren’s steady rising and falling was a stark warning to everyone in the city, a sign that danger was on its way. It had become so familiar that many of the city’s residents no longer reacted to its warning. There had not been any bombs to follow it yet. It was as if they were numb to the danger, paralysed by its constant attention, the indiscriminate destruction. It wasn’t that they no longer cared, Ruth thought, but that they were now resigned to it.
It had become a kind of ritual, a tradition. They were all used to the raids, although some still acted as if they were invulnerable. They’d had drills and she had been trained for this moment when she volunteered, but that didn’t make her any calmer. Especially now that George had come home. This time it felt different, the steady drone of aircraft could already be heard in the distance. George was still, too. The smile had dropped from his lips and he stared into the middle distance. Ruth didn’t have time to wonder where he had gone and what he was thinking.
He isn’t supposed to be here, she thought again, unable to push away the sentiment. It wasn’t that she wasn’t glad to see him, but that he was supposed to be safe somewhere else, anywhere else. The city wasn’t safe for children. It was one of the reasons she had decided to volunteer. Some other parents had decided to keep their children at home despite the advice of the War Office. She had decided she needed to do something to help them.
George flinched as the siren started another cycle. What was she going to do about him? She couldn’t take him with her, and she couldn’t leave him here on his own. Her family were too far away in the middle of an air raid, and she wasn’t sure she could rely on them anyway. One of her neighbours would have to help her.
She grabbed his hand, still small in her grip, and led him to the front door. Her mind raced, forgetting what she was supposed to be doing. The street outside was dark and she could make out the shapes of people leaving their homes, some in groups, others on their own. The front yards looked as if they were joined as one now that the metal fences had been removed for the war effort.
Harriet was already leaving her home when Ruth stepped out onto the street, and if not for a shout she would have disappeared around the corner of their lane. Thankfully Harriet stopped in her tracks, then turned. She was a short and stocky woman. Her deep black curls looked as if they required plenty of upkeep and she was dressed as if she was going to church. Ruth had no idea how the woman always managed to look so prim and proper, especially in an emergency.
‘What’s wrong, Ruth?’ Her eyes widened as she noticed George. Her gaze flickered back to look straight at Ruth. There were questions in Harriet’s eyes, but she didn’t ask them.
‘Right,’ Harriet said, without missing a beat. ‘You’re back. Of course. Of course. Georgie, come with your aunt Harriet. Now. Your mother’s got things to do, so why don’t you tell me all about your trip?’
She held out a hand and he tottered over to take it as Ruth uttered a silent word of thanks to her neighbour. Harriet was one of the few women she could count on, having had a number of her own children and being a complete natural when it came to George. He had taken to her well when he was only a toddler, and Harriet had been effectively an aunt to him. Harriet was one of those habitual mothers, and at times it made Ruth feel inadequate.
Ruth watched the two of them go, seeing her son leave again. It pulled at her in a way she couldn’t explain. She couldn’t believe it was happening again. She longed to follow them, but knew she couldn’t. Forcing herself to turn away from her son, from the safety of the shelter, she stepped back into the house.
Inside, she tried to compose herself, organise her thoughts into something coherent. The air raid siren still screamed at her, but now it was at the back of her mind. Even without bombs, she had realised after the first few drills that rushing and panicking through the blackout only resulted in other injuries. No, she took her time, getting her voluntary service overalls from the cupboard where she stored them, stepping into each leg one after the other and buttoning up the heavy plastic buttons. It denoted her authority and her right to be about the city during a raid. It would allow her to go where she needed to go. She grabbed her gas mask.
She almost left, then hesitated, turning back to grab the notepad she always kept in her handbag. She didn’t know whether she would need it tonight, but she always kept it on her. She stepped over the threshold again, heading out into the angry night.