Christmas on the Mersey Read online

  ‘Small thanks to you, they are fine.’

  Charlie’s barbed words caused that familiar feeling of guilt to rise up in Rita’s heart as he entered the small breakfast room, his mother – making a great play of her bad leg – following behind. Rita looked at him. He was lean and once upon a time she had thought him handsome, but now his hair was thinning and his face always bore a sneer, or his words a put-down. Sometimes she could barely bring herself to look at him. Now his icy glare seized her and held her in its grasp. Rita knew that trouble had been brewing and she steeled herself for his onslaught.

  ‘What kind of a mother leaves her children during an air raid?’ Charlie’s voice was laced with malice as he addressed his mother, who nodded in agreement.

  Ma Kennedy had assumed her usual seat by the window. She was wearing her housecoat and had her hair in curlers, covered by a headscarf. Her face wore the sour look of disapproval that Rita had come to know so well.

  ‘I know Charles, it is unforgivable! You have an obligation to your family, Rita!’ Mrs Kennedy’s mouth puckered and her condescending expression told Rita she thought she wasn’t much of a mother if she could not be here for her own children during an air raid.

  Rita felt that she had little room for manoeuvre when they ganged up on her like this. These days she usually put up a strong resistance, but her own guilt and anxiety were threatening to gang up on her too. She felt weak, tired and unable to defend herself. She should have been here. Of course, she should.

  ‘You both know that hospitals all over the land are in dire need of trained staff. People like me are in short supply,’ she countered weakly.

  ‘People like you?’ Charlie sneered. ‘Listen to Rita, Mother! Looks like she’s going to save the country single-handed. Shame she doesn’t feel as strongly about her own kids.’

  Rita felt her stomach dip.

  ‘You’ll have to tell her, Charles.’ His mother was standing now, poker stiff at the side of the table while Rita, feeling as bad as it was possible for a mother to feel, none the less did not fail to notice the sidelong, warning glance Charlie gave his mother.

  ‘Mind your own business, can’t you?’ His tone now turned to impatience as he barked at the children, ‘Michael, take Megan through next door to the lounge and put the wireless on.’

  The children both looked at Rita uncertainly, but she nodded for them to go. It wouldn’t do for them to get caught up in a row.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Rita’s throat tightened and she found it difficult to swallow, her mouth now paper dry with trepidation.

  ‘The children are being evacuated today – this morning,’ Charlie said without preamble. ‘It’s all arranged – and don’t even think about trying to stop it.’ He did not hang around long enough for Rita to answer but stalked from the room. She could hear him taking the stairs two at a time.

  Rita was confused. What did he mean, they were going to be evacuated today? Where to? They’d been back home for only a few months. She scraped back the chair and stood up, but before she left the room she laid her hands flat upon the table and leaned towards Mrs Kennedy.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ She knew her husband couldn’t organise the children’s evacuation on his own. He would not have the foggiest idea where to start.

  Ma Kennedy folded her arms and looked away. ‘I’m saying nothing,’ was all she offered.

  Rita pushed down her anger at her mother-in-law and headed for the stairs at a run. She opened Megan’s bedroom door to find Charlie there, and her heart lurched. There were two suitcases on the bed, one for each of her children, and he was folding Megan’s clothes into hers.

  ‘Are you sending them back to Freshfield Farm?’ It had been so harrowing when they were evacuated last time, billeted on a farm way outside the city. The people that had looked after the children were decent folk and the children were happy. Rita knew that they had been well looked after. If they had to go away again, it would break her heart, but she also knew that the children were no longer safe. Charlie was right.

  ‘No. I’ve made other arrangements.’

  Cold fear ran through Rita’s veins as she heard these words and her voice shook. ‘What other arrangements? What do you mean? Tell me!’

  ‘Get a grip of yourself, woman.’ Charlie’s voice was full of scorn. ‘I’ve got a place lined up …’

  ‘Where?’ Rita asked.

  At first he said nothing, ignoring her as he put a few more items into Megan’s suitcase, which had been neatly packed. Charlie never lifted a finger around the house and would have as much idea about packing a suitcase as flying a Spitfire. His mother must have helped him. He stopped what he was doing and straightened up, his expression full of contempt for her.

  ‘I know of a little boarding house in Southport.’

  ‘How?’ Rita asked. ‘We don’t have any family there.’

  ‘It’s run by an old lady Mother knows, Elsie Lowe …’ Charlie looked away again and shut the lid of Michael’s suitcase.

  ‘Is this your mother’s doing? She’s never liked the children being here. This would be her way of getting them out from under her feet …’

  ‘You were the one who said they should come back here to the Luftwaffe’s playground,’ Charlie said, his unwavering stare boring into her. ‘It was you who put them in danger, remember that.’

  ‘There were no raids when they came home!’ Rita tried to remain calm, but was finding it difficult. What was Charlie up to? She knew Michael and Megan should be somewhere safer but why wasn’t he taking them back to the farm?

  ‘If anything had happened to them last night, it would have been your fault, Rita. Yours! Nobody else’s.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘What kind of mother puts strangers before her own kids?’

  ‘It is my duty as a trained nurse to serve,’ Rita answered, knowing he had made no great shakes to oblige his country in any capacity yet, and by the look of it he had no intention of doing so now.

  ‘It’s also your duty to look after your children. But you can’t do that with your precious work so I will be going with them.’

  Rita tried a different tactic; if she fought him he would become even more determined. ‘Of course you are right, as always.’ His shoulders relaxed just a little. ‘But, as you know, when people started calling it “the phoney war” it seemed ridiculous to keep the kids away from home.’

  ‘Well, it’s not so phoney now, is it, Rita?’ His shoulders stiffened again, indicating his mind was made up.

  Rita told herself any mother would have brought her children home when there was no threat – and a lot of children had come home, like Tommy, Kitty Callaghan’s little brother just up the street. Rita had begged and begged for her children to be allowed to come back, but Charlie refused her pleas until it suited him. Until then, Rita had had to make do with monthly visits; it was all her shifts at the hospital could accommodate.

  Rita was starting to lose control of her emotions. The words came out like gunfire.

  ‘You’ve never cared about the children. The only reason you brought them back was because you wanted to get me back into the marital bed again. You don’t give a damn for their wellbeing – all you care about is yourself!’

  Rita tried not to think about the terrible events following Sonny Callaghan’s funeral. Charlie had found her with Jack Callaghan and, though they had done nothing wrong, he had viciously attacked and forced himself on her, though Rita knew her marriage was in tatters before then. Charlie’s squandering of their life savings had seen to that, but this had been an unspeakable act. Rita had sworn that she would never let him near her again, but the high price for getting her children home was moving back into the marital bed. After he and Rita had married, Charlie had ceased to show any interest in her sexually and Rita knew this wasn’t normal. But since Charlie had attacked her that time, he got a perverse pleasure from his cruelty and bedtimes were something that she now dreaded.

  ‘On the contrary, Rita, everyone thinks that it
’s you that doesn’t give a damn for your children, so maybe you should have thought harder before you went off to play Florence Nightingale!’

  Rita had lost the battle to stop the panic rising in her voice. ‘There’s no way I’m letting you take my kids away to God knows where with God knows who. I’ll give my notice at the hospital and I’ll go with them.’ Rita knew she was clutching at straws.

  ‘You have work to do here. Remember?’

  ‘I can get a transfer; they need nurses in other hospitals too.’

  ‘We are moving somewhere safer; to a better-class neighbourhood.’ Charlie’s voice dripped scorn and Rita knew that he’d made his mind up. There was something dangerous about his mood, too – she’d seen him like this before. When he behaved this way he could turn and either lose all control or terrorise her in that low, underhand way. His cold eyes were a familiar indication of the depraved depths to which Rita knew her husband could sink.

  Charlie, menacing now, edged forward. ‘Poor Rita. Going to miss your children, are you? Or is it really me that you’re going to miss?’ Rita felt her parched tongue slide over the roof of her mouth, now paper dry with fear. He was between her and the door. She would not get out this time without a struggle.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Her voice was low now, sticking in her throat. Don’t show him you’re scared, Rita, that’s what he wants.

  ‘I know how you really like it, Rita, just like at the beginning, flaunting yourself like the slut you are.’ He gave a small contemptible laugh. ‘You never thought I’d cotton on, did you … you tricked me into marrying you and caught me good and proper …’ His face twisted into something ugly now. ‘Take me, Charlie … I need you, Charlie … we are good together, Charlie!’ he jeered.

  ‘I did not say those things!’ Outrage replaced Rita’s fear.

  ‘You threw yourself at me,’ Charlie spat accusingly, ‘just to get a husband …’

  Rita remembered only too well what had happened between her and Charlie. It was seared indelibly on her mind. Even when his hands were all over her she knew it was wrong … The eau-de-Cologne scent of gin still made her retch even now. Charlie was right, she had tricked him. But not for the reasons he thought. Charlie never allowed her to forget she let him ‘have her’ before marriage. Once – just once – but it was enough and she had paid for it every day since. If Charlie ever found out why she’d allowed it … the thought of it alone made her feel sick.

  ‘I could have been out of this lousy street long before now.’ Charlie made a sudden movement with his hand, making her flinch. She could see her nervousness amused him by the way his lazy grin made his thin yard-brush moustache bristle. Any fond feelings she had had for him at the beginning of their marriage were now dead. He’d seen to that. Rita thought she could change him into a more caring person when they were married. She had been a fool.

  ‘I didn’t marry you because I loved you … I married you to stop you marrying Jack Callaghan.’ His callous words were snarled low, for her hearing alone. ‘The great Jack Callaghan, the pride of Merseyside. The love of your life.’ Charlie looked at her with something akin to hate now when he said, ‘Don’t think I didn’t see the way he looked at you, or the way you looked at him when you thought nobody could see. Well, I saw! I saw plenty. But I’ll tell you this for nowt – you’re mine now … remember that!’

  With mention of Jack Callaghan, Rita had a sudden vision of him, his kind eyes and strong face looking into her own. I’ve always loved you, Rita. You know that, don’t you? If only Jack were here now. He’d never let Charlie treat her this way. But she had married Charlie instead of Jack. She had been a deceiver and this was the price she was paying. All the same, the thought of Jack and his words gave her strength.

  ‘I know you, Charlie Kennedy, you’re up to something.’ Even in her anxious state, something was niggling away at her.

  Charlie was still managing to evade conscription but that wouldn’t last for ever. Men were being called up all over Liverpool and Charlie’s turn would come. Was leaving with the kids some way of avoiding his duty? He couldn’t look at the children most days, let alone show them affection. Were the children to be solely in his hands, she feared for their welfare. And what about his job? How could he look after Michael and Megan when he was working all day? Questions tumbled inside her head.

  ‘The appeal of marriage soon wore off when you got the gold ring on your finger … Prim and proper on the outside, but I know different,’ Charlie continued.

  Rita bit back a retort, knowing it was wise not to antagonise him. What choice did she have? Her husband’s put-downs, while making her feel stupid, were a small reminder of the wrong she had done. To add to the misery, his mother expected her to carry the burden of running the corner shop and raising two children virtually alone. Was it any wonder she went back to nursing with her arms wide open as soon as the children were evacuated?

  While accepting this was her lot in life, Rita adored her beloved children above all else.

  You play with the hand you’re dealt, Rita. Her mind echoed Charlie’s sentiments now and Rita felt she was getting no more than she deserved. Like most women round here, she had made her bed and now she must lie in it. Being Catholic, she would never contemplate divorce – the idea was ludicrous in a place like Empire Street, where women married for life but not always for love. For women like her, happiness was a bonus, not an expectation.

  ‘I don’t understand why they can’t just go back to Freshfield,’ she said again.

  ‘Those people tried turning my children against me.’ Charlie went back to the suitcase and Rita wondered what excuse he would make next. ‘They hid behind the old woman’s skirts like I was the bogeyman.’

  ‘You hadn’t been to see them for months,’ Rita explained. ‘They thought they had done something wrong when you attacked the farmer!’

  ‘He tried to stop me taking them home.’

  ‘He’d never seen you before.’ Rita knew that Charlie was lucky he had not been threatened with a shotgun – ‘Uncle Seth’, as the children called the farmer, was very protective of Michael and Megan and a very good shot.

  ‘Michael took his time confirming I was, in fact, his father,’ Charlie straightened himself to his full six foot, ‘which just goes to show they were in need of a firm hand!’

  Rita gasped at his delusions of civil paternity … Charlie had no patience with his children or, indeed, anyone else.

  ‘I can take them to the farm myself,’ Rita said. ‘Joan would be thrilled to have them back. I got a letter from her yesterday. She asked if …’

  Charlie’s head was still bent as he raised his eyes. They cut her with a warning glare that told her to be quiet or else; to say no more. It told her that she was making things worse for herself.

  ‘Go down. You’re wasting precious time with your beloved children,’ he said. ‘You’ve shown where your priorities lie, even when it is obvious your own flesh and blood need you more.’

  ‘Charlie, there is a war on. People are dying and the hospitals need all the nurses they can get.’

  ‘Of course.’ His eyes were full of scorn. ‘That is why I am releasing you of the burden of your own children.’

  ‘They have never been a burden! You must tell me where you are taking them!’ Rita’s voice was rising, becoming shrill with anxiety. She must remain calm. Think straight. He would want her to dissolve into hysterics. That way he was in control. His lips parted into a disparaging grin as he mimicked her words in better times.

  ‘I love my children more than life itself!’ He threw his head back and gave a laugh that was far from humorous. ‘You should be on the stage at the Metropole, Rita.’

  There was a cold gleam in his eyes and Charlie’s words were low when he said, ‘All in good time, Rita. You know, you can be very entertaining when you’re riled.’

  Horrified, she watched Charlie stop packing the little suitcase. His eyes were now taking in every inch of her body, paus
ing on the parts he would claim without consent, given the chance. Rita froze, aware now what he had in mind. He was going to put her in her place. This was the real reason he had agreed to bringing the children back from evacuation. His violent attentions – she could never call it lovemaking – were so painful they reduced her to tears. She prayed for him to stop, unable to cry out for fear the children would hear. It was her duty to preserve her children’s innocence.

  Her eyes never left him as he edged towards her. Bitter bile was searing her throat. How far was she from the closed bedroom door? She would never get past him from this distance.

  Rita felt the blood run like cold water through her veins. It was broad daylight. Her children were downstairs having breakfast. She could hear them chatting away. He wouldn’t … Not now …

  Charlie moved inch … by inch … enjoying her torment.

  Please Lord, don’t let him do this to me again …

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Mrs Kerrigan, have you seen the rest of my Lady Jane’s?’ Nancy Kerrigan, twenty-year-old wife of Corporal Sid Kerrigan, POW, of the Cheshire Regi­ment, had wound half of her shoulder-length, Titian-coloured hair into little Catherine-wheel twists before securing them with silver clips. If she’s given them to the salvage men, Nancy thought, she’ll get the sharp edge of my tongue!

  ‘You left them in the parlour,’ Mrs Kerrigan said, bringing a paper bag into the back kitchen, where Nancy was standing on the tips of her toes looking into the oval mirror hanging from the nail above the deep stone sink. Nancy let out an impatient sigh; her mother-in-law was always snooping in her private things. She didn’t know what the old woman expected to find but she was going to be disappointed.

  ‘What did you want in the parlour?’ Nancy asked, her suspicions aroused when Mrs Kerrigan put the paper bag containing the rest of her clips onto the wet draining board, so that the paper became all soggy. ‘You had no right going into my private sitting room.’ She paid Sid’s mother good rent out of Sid’s army allowance money every week. ‘There’s no privacy in this house.’