Winter on the Mersey: A Heartwarming Christmas Saga. Annie Groves
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an evening off. ‘One Gloria in the world is quite enough. All right, she’s got a great voice, but she can’t bake a Woolton pie like you can. She never was keen on spending time in the kitchen.’
Gloria Arden was now one of the country’s best-loved singers, riding high in the public’s esteem, her golden voice offering entertainment and comfort in equal measure, and was often to be found touring with ENSA, the Entertainments National Service Association. She’d started her life in Empire Street, though, daughter of the landlord and landlady of the Sailor’s Rest, and had been his sister Nancy’s best friend – still was Nancy’s best friend, in fact, and whenever a tour brought Gloria back to the north of England, she would make a point of seeing her. Even before she made it big, Gloria had never had any domestic inclinations. She’d worked in a factory before she got her lucky break, singing at the Adelphi in the city centre when they had a vacant slot.
‘Bet she can’t mend a uniform jacket like I can either,’ Sylvia went on. ‘Or type as fast.’
‘Or type at all, as far as I know,’ Frank added dutifully. He carefully put his arm around Sylvia’s shoulder – not because he thought she might object, but because he had to be mindful of his balance. He’d lost a leg back in the early days of the war and had used a false one ever since. He could manage most day-to-day things, although his reign as a boxing champion was over, but any sudden movement could be a problem. It meant he couldn’t be as spontaneous as he’d like to be. He’d met Sylvia long after the accident and she’d always said she didn’t mind, but sometimes he wondered. While they were very fond of each other, if pressed he would have to say they were ‘in like’ and not ‘in love’. Then again, he reasoned that the war distorted all relationships. Some couples flung themselves at each other, in case one or both of them weren’t here tomorrow. There had been plenty of over-hasty affairs and marriages, some of which were lasting and others that had already crumbled. Other couples chose to tread much more cautiously, wary of enforced separations or the heightened emotions that inevitably came with prolonged fighting conditions. He suspected that was what had happened to them. Before his accident he had been anything but cautious, but that and the war had matured him, and now he had the added responsibility of being a lieutenant, responsible for training many of the new recruits at Western Approaches Command. He couldn’t be seen gadding about in the streets, even if it was with a highly respected young Wren.
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Sylvia sparkily. ‘I like to know I’m appreciated.’
‘Oh, you are,’ said Frank warmly, and meant it. He brushed her dark curls where they were coming loose from the base of her uniform cap. ‘I’m a lucky man and I know it. It’s not every old crock who has a beautiful young woman on his arm.’
‘Old crock – get away with you.’ Sylvia punched him on the arm. She’d known about his leg from the start and it had never bothered her, though she sensed it still troubled him far more than he let on. All she could do was carry on as normal and hope that one day he’d believe her that it really didn’t matter. He was devastatingly good-looking, he was widely respected at work, and she knew she was the envy of most of the female members of staff at Derby House to be walking out with him. Fair enough, he might not be able to take her dancing at the Grafton, but in all other respects he was just what she’d always wanted. If only he could believe that. Sometimes she wondered if he ever would.
‘Let’s get the bus,’ she suggested, rounding the corner and not even registering the damage to what had once been the large John Lewis department store, so familiar was it in its wrecked state. ‘We don’t want to miss the beginning. That’s the moment I like best – when the lights begin to go down.’ She looked up at him brightly, and winked.
Frank squeezed her shoulder. They halted by the bus stop, busy with workers returning to the outskirts of the city, many in uniforms of the various armed forces. There was a hum of chatter, and Frank thought for a moment how much he loved his home city, with everyone pulling together and getting on with what needed to be done, despite the horrendous bomb damage all around. The people of Merseyside were bigger than the attacks of the Luftwaffe. This is what they were fighting for – the spirit of the place and the people who lived there. He was proud of his uniform, and Sylvia’s, and could see that other people were looking at them approvingly. His earlier qualms seemed unjustified and silly now.
‘Come on, this is ours.’ Sylvia stepped onto the bus and Frank let her choose where to sit. Miraculously there were two seats together, but this was near the start of the route, and later on it would be standing room only. He was secretly glad – he’d of course get up and offer his place to anyone who needed it, but standing for any length of time in a moving vehicle was something he’d rather avoid. As more passengers got on he was pressed closer to Sylvia and he noticed yet again how her cleverly altered uniform jacket curved around her shapely body. No wonder the men in the bus queue had looked at him with envy.
‘What shifts are you on this weekend?’ he asked, his mouth close to her ear as yet another group of passengers squeezed inside. ‘I’m off on Sunday. Shall we make a day of it?’
Sylvia sighed and turned towards him. ‘Oh, Frank, I’d love to, but I didn’t know you’d have any free time. I’ve got both days off for once and I promised I’d go to see my parents. It’s been ages, and they worry if I don’t visit them now and again. They think I’ve wasted away or something.’
‘Ah well, never mind.’ Frank knew that was true. Sylvia came from the Lake District, and even though it was in theory in the same corner of England, the journey was often complicated and took ages. He couldn’t blame her for grabbing the chance to spend some time at home. He was lucky – he only had to travel along the Mersey to Bootle to see Dolly and Pop. He couldn’t begrudge her this opportunity to see the parents he knew she missed dearly, even if she rarely admitted it. He reached down and squeezed her hand. ‘You’ll enjoy that. Give them my best.’
‘I will.’ Sylvia had been nervous at first to introduce Frank and her parents, never fully sure how he felt about her, but after they’d officially been a couple for six months she’d taken the plunge. Of course, they had loved him, and now they never stopped asking her when he was going to pop the question, but Sylvia couldn’t answer that one. If these had been normal times, things might have been different – and yet without the war, she and Frank would never have met at all. ‘Mum will probably load me up with her home-made jam for you.’
‘I’ll use it to sweeten my landlady,’ Frank laughed. ‘It’s about the only thing that works.’ He’d chosen to live in a service billet rather than go back to the little house on Empire Street, as that was already full to bursting, but his landlady was taciturn at best and mostly plain sour. He didn’t complain – he wasn’t there for entertainment.
‘Excuse me,’ said a trembling voice from behind his shoulder, ‘I hate to ask but …’
Frank swivelled round in his seat and saw an old woman, leaning on a walking stick, making her way unsteadily along the aisle. He stood up immediately. ‘Please. My pleasure.’ He took a firm grip of the well-worn metal pole so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by falling as the bus jerked back into action along the potholed road, and the lady sagged in relief as she sat down. Sylvia shuffled along the seat a little to make room.
Frank noticed that slight movement and reminded himself how caring she was and how little fuss she made about it. Some women might have made a song and dance about having to share a seat with someone other than their boyfriend, but not Sylvia. She was simply good-natured like that. She was kind, and very attractive, and she wanted to be with him – so why was he hanging back from committing himself more fully?
‘Is she sleeping?’ Violet leant over the little cot to see Ellen’s tiny face. ‘What beautiful eyelashes she has, Rita. She’s going to be a model in a magazine when she’s grown up.’ She straightened again and tugged at the sleeves of her old cardigan. They must have shrunk again in a too-hot wash, but it was one of the very few she had left.
Rita sat up on the couch, gazing adoringly at her new daughter. ‘She’s been like that for half an hour. I managed to nod off myself, just for a quick