Someone to Trust Read online

Lucy leaped off the step and raced across the court and through the passageway as fast as she could. The air felt hotter and heavier than before and thunder rumbled nearby. The sooner it rains the better, she thought, easing her clinging skirts away from her legs as she raced along Bostock Street in the direction of Scotland Road. She kept her eyes on the crowd milling about several lorries on the other side of the street. Trouble, she thought, and tiptoed past, watching the soldiers leaping from the rear of the vehicles to be met by a hail of stones and half-bricks. She could hear a man egging on the troops to have a go at him. To her relief no one was taking a blind bit of notice of her so she quickened her pace and reached the pillar box on Scotland Road without hindrance.

  It was on her return that she met trouble head on. The crowd had spilled out of Bostock Street, falling back before the soldiers who were now wielding the butts of their rifles. Lucy decided there was nothing for it but to make a wide sweep and return home by a different route which would bring her to the junction of Stanley Road and Scotland Road where the Rotunda Theatre was situated. As she ran she could hear the shouts and jeers of the crowd. Then came the sounds of rifle fire.

  As Lucy reached the main road she slowed down, having to step carefully over debris and broken glass, then she became aware that more soldiers were spilling out from the Rotunda Theatre and realised she could be trapped between the fleeing crowd and the reinforcements if she didn’t get a move on. She raced across the road, her eyes on the soldiers, only to catch her foot in a tramline. She went flying, landing on her hands and knees.

  As she struggled to rise a man fell over her, cursing and swearing. He picked himself up and ran on. The next moment she was buffeted from either side and knocked flat again. She tried to get up only to have her wrist seized. Roughly, she was dragged to her feet.

  ‘Gotcha!’ The soldier’s grip was like iron.

  ‘Let me go!’ said Lucy through gritted teeth. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong!’

  ‘They all say that, love. Pure and white as the driven snow you’d have us believe.’ It was a young voice but powerfully attractive with a hint of Welsh in the Liverpool accent.

  ‘But I am innocent!’ said Lucy, struggling to free herself.

  ‘All you slummy kids say that. You’d think we were born yesterday!’

  She bristled, trying to see his face, but his headgear threw it into shadow. ‘I’m not a kid!’ she hissed. ‘And how dare you call me a slummy? We’re poor but respectable.’

  ‘Skint and desperate more like! I’ve heard it all before, love, so you might as well save your breath. You’ll have your chance to state your innocence at the Juvenile Court in the morning.’

  That did it! Lucy panicked and bit his hand as he began to drag her in the direction of Athol Street bridewell. He swore. ‘That’s BH, girl - you’ll regret it.’ His sinewy fingers gripped her wrist tighter so she lashed out with her foot and felt the steel cap of her boot catch him on the shin. His breath hissed between his teeth and his grip slackened long enough for her to wrench herself free and scarper. She tore up William Moult Street, experiencing a peculiar exhilaration as well as fear, expecting at any second to hear the thudding of his heavy Army boots behind her and feel his hand on her shoulder.

  She darted up a back entry and stopped to catch her breath. There was a stench of decaying cabbage leaves, rotten fish and cats’ wee. For a moment she was reluctant to go any further because the way forward was so black. Then, almost as if she’d prayed for light, lightning flashed across the sky, turning the entry into day. She ran, only to be plunged into darkness seconds later. Thunder crashed overhead and the rain came.

  By the time Lucy arrived home she was soaked to the skin. Weary as she was, she paused to sit on the front step and remove her boots in case there was something nasty on them. She stumbled into the house and found her mother dozing in front of a fire that was almost out. Shivering, Lucy sank on to the rag rug.

  Maureen started awake and blinked at her. ‘What took you so long? You’re soaked to the skin!’

  ‘It’s pouring with rain, Mam – and there’s a battle going on worse than the Somme! Guns… rifles going off and everything. A soldier got me but I escaped.’

  Maureen stared at her daughter as if scarcely able to believe what she was saying. ‘What d’you mean, got you?’ Lucy explained, watching anger kindle in her mother’s eyes. Maureen jumped to her feet and, hugging herself, began to pace the floor. ‘What kind of world is it when the British Army fights its own people? Is this what my husband died for?’

  Lucy was silent, hoping her mother wouldn’t work herself up into a state. They were big questions she was asking, but what was the use of asking her at this time of night and after the day she’d had? ‘Can I put more wood on the fire, Mam?’ she asked.

  Maureen stopped her pacing and sighed. ‘What’s the use of that? Best save it to sell in the morning. We’ll go to bed. You’ll soon get warm once you’re alongside Timmy and me.’

  It was true Lucy did get warm, but not immediately. And she would have given a lot to have had a cup of tea made for her and to have toasted her cold toes in front of a blazing fire.

  * * *

  Lucy felt she had hardly slept when she was awakened by a thunderous knocking. Surely it couldn’t be morning already? There it was again and she could hear voices down in the court. Maureen turned over, dragging the blankets with her, leaving Lucy’s half-naked body exposed to the air. The hammering came again and she forced herself into a sitting position. ‘Mam, I think there’s someone at the door.’

  ‘Tell them to go away,’ muttered Maureen, not moving. Reluctantly Lucy got out of bed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Timmy sleepily.

  Lucy did not answer but went over to the window. The rain had stopped and when she pushed up the lower sash the air felt cool and reasonably fresh. She glanced down into the court and saw soldiers. They were using rifle butts to hammer on doors and even as she watched one smashed in a door panel. ‘Mam! Come quickly,’ she shouted. ‘It’s the soldiers and they’re going to smash our door in. Shall I go down and let them in?’

  Maureen groaned and with a weary gesture threw back the blankets and got out of bed, leaving Timmy in his vest, curled up like a kitten on the edge. Silently she padded over to the window, only to let out a shriek when she saw what was happening below. She turned on her daughter. ‘This is your fault, Lucy! You’ve brought this on us!’ she hissed. Then she stuck her head out of the window and yelled. ‘Don’t you dare go bashing my door in, soldier! I’m coming down.’

  She slammed the window shut and whirled round to face her daughter. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, my girl! Do something! Hide those things you stole while I get dressed and answer the door.’ She was visibly trembling. ‘Pass me my frock first!’

  Lucy picked up the garment from the floor before darting over to the chest of drawers and pulling on the bottom drawer that had a habit of sticking. She tugged hard and fell backwards with the drawer as it came right out.

  ‘Will you stop messing about and get dressed!’ cried Maureen. ‘He’ll have the door in in a minute.’

  ‘I’m moving as quickly as I can.’ Lucy snatched up the black dress she’d worn for her grandfather’s funeral. It was far too small for her now but she knew beggars couldn’t be choosers and the frock she had worn last night was hanging damply on the washing rack in the kitchen.

  Her mother faced her, frantically doing up her buttons. ‘If he breaks my door down, I don’t know what’ll happen to us! And he’d better not find those stolen things ’cos if we’re fined it’ll be prison – I won’t be able to pay! Now hurry up and hide them!’

  ‘I’m moving, I’m moving,’ cried Lucy, forcing the frock over her hips. ‘Perhaps I should bring them all upstairs? The soldier’s bound to search downstairs first!’

  ‘Yes, do that! Then get back into bed and pretend to be asleep.’

  Lucy didn’t waste any time but collected as much of the
fruit and veg as she thought looked surplus to their normal expenditure, which was most of it, and carried it upstairs, wondering where was the best place to hide it. She went into her grandmother’s room and stowed it under the bed. Then she hurried downstairs again and carried up the boots, passing her mother on the way down. She was calling to the soldier that she was just coming.

  Lucy paused in the doorway of her grandmother’s room and then, with a giggle bubbling inside her and an apology to the old woman on her lips, she hid the boots. Shivering slightly, she went and stood at the top of the stairs to listen to the conversation being carried out on the doorstep. It was the familiar inflection to the soldier’s voice that caused her to shoot back into the bedroom and dive under the blankets.

  ‘What’s happening?’ muttered Timmy, his eyes blue slits.

  ‘It’s a soldier. Pretend to be asleep.’ She was conscious of the sound of his heavy boots as he climbed the bare wooden stairs. They seemed to shake the whole house. The giant’s words from ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ ran through her head: ‘Fe-fi-fo-fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman’. Suddenly she had an insane desire to laugh. He was outside their door. She could hear her mother saying indignantly. ‘This is a disgrace. My children are in bed. Do you have to wake them?’

  Lucy closed her eyes tightly. The door opened and she could sense the soldier standing at the foot of the bed, gazing down at them. Her heart was beating wildly and she wanted to put a hand over it to calm it down. Was it him? Was it him? Would he recognise her?

  ‘Out, kids!’

  Neither of them moved but Lucy couldn’t stop her eyelashes from fluttering.

  ‘You’re not fooling me. Now get up!’

  Lucy opened her eyes and was unable to tell whether it was last night’s soldier or not. He looked to be about twenty with a firmness about his jaw that boded no good for those who might attempt to put one over on him, but there was something about his mouth that suggested he might not be as tough as he made out. She wondered if he’d actually seen any action at the front. She knew there were those who’d had romantic ideas about valour and fighting for one’s country and had lied about their age. He had very noticeable black eyebrows which seemed to be able to move independently. One was raised like a humped caterpillar right now. He also had a scar next to his left eye which disappeared beneath his hairline. He didn’t give any sign of recognising her but maybe he was a good actor.

  She and Timmy scrambled out of bed to stand next to their mother. They watched the soldier tweak the blankets with the barrel of his rifle so that they fell over the foot of the bed, revealing absolutely nothing. Lucy smiled. That was one in the eye for him. He indicated with his head that they should climb back in but Lucy sat on the bed next to her mother as he went through the flimsy chest of drawers only to reveal the paucity of their contents.

  He left the room. Quickly Maureen and Lucy followed him next door where her grandmother’s body lay. As he gazed down at the corpse Lucy was watching him intently. His eyes rested on the outline of the boots beneath the bedcovers, exactly where the old woman’s feet should be, and there was a woodenness about his expression that told them he wasn’t fooled.

  ‘Died with her boots on, did she?’

  Lucy could not help it. Her lips twitched. Maureen cleared her throat. ‘And why not?’ She drew herself up to her full height and tilted her chin. ‘Young man, it’s only yesterday she passed to her rest. I’ll be taking them off her today.’

  ‘No, missus. I’ll be taking them off her now,’ he said, pulling back the bedcovers and removing the boots.

  Lucy protested. Those boots would have brought them some desperately needed cash. He looked at her. ‘Your gran, was she?’ The Welsh inflection in his voice overrode the Scouse this time but Lucy could not detect any sympathy.

  ‘That’s right. But what do you care?’ she spat, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Do what you came for and get out of our house!’

  His eyes hardened. ‘Watch what you say, kid!’ He turned to Maureen. ‘Are you a widow?’

  ‘That’s right. My husband sacrificed his life for king and country. And my daddy was a member of the police force – a lot of good it did him!’ She sounded bitter.

  He made no comment but bent and picked up something from the floor. As he did so he glanced under the bed before straightening up. Lucy and her mother stared down at the apple in his hand. He polished its red skin on his sleeve and bit into it. Maureen blurted out, ‘You’d take the food out of my children’s mouths now, would you?’

  ‘You be grateful I’m only taking the boots and one apple and not arresting the pair of you!’ He stared at Lucy and there was a look in his grey eyes which left her in no doubt he was the same soldier whose hand she had bitten last night. So why wasn’t he arresting them now?

  She and her mother followed him downstairs. He went into the kitchen, gazing about him before entering the scullery. He emerged, shaking his head. ‘God, what a dump!’ He threw the apple core on the ashes in the grate.

  Lucy glanced at her mother and saw two bright spots of colour in her cheeks. The girl burned with resentment, too. ‘We don’t live here by choice, you know, but because the government’s slow in providing Mam with a pension.’

  He frowned. ‘There’s no need to tell me that. What I said is no reflection on your mother or yourself – but you don’t want to end up in the juvenile courts so keep your nose clean. No more pilfering! I know it feels like there isn’t much justice in the world but you’ve got away with it this time. Next time you mightn’t be so lucky and could end up getting out of here only to end up in a girls’ reformatory. You don’t want to be separated from your mother and your little brother, do you?’

  Lucy reddened. ‘I hear you! But you’ve got me all wrong.’

  Her mother poked her in the ribs. ‘Not another word, girl,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘Aye. You heed your mam,’ said the soldier, and left the kitchen.

  Maureen hurried after him but Lucy ran upstairs. She was almost in tears, angry with herself for failing in her attempt to help her family. She found Timmy waiting at the top and he seized her sleeve. ‘He didn’t find them, did he?’ His tone was anxious.

  ‘The boots? Yes, he did.’ She heaved a sigh of regret.

  ‘Your sister isn’t very good at hiding things.’ Maureen’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘Let this be a lesson to you both. Our Lord doesn’t approve of thievery.’

  Goodness. That visit from the priest must have stirred her conscience, thought Lucy, and called down, ‘But he pardoned one when he was on the cross, Mam!’

  ‘Don’t you get smart with me, Luce,’ warned her mother. ‘I think you’ve done and said enough for one day. Now downstairs! At least we’ve an early start on the day so we’ll get through everything. You light the fire.’

  ‘Shall I peel us some tatties as well?’ asked the girl eagerly. ‘There’s a bit of dripping in a cup on the shelf that Aunt Mac gave us. I could make scollops.’

  Maureen’s mouth relaxed. ‘Why not? Scollop butties. That sounds good. I’ll see to the fire. You hurry to the bakery now. The bread’ll be warm. But don’t go eating the jockey if there is one.’

  Her mother had to be joking, thought Lucy, running quickly downstairs. She was starving! The jockey was a bit of bread thrown in with a loaf if it wasn’t the exact weight. It was just the right size to stave off early-morning pangs of hunger on the way home.

  More soldiers were knocking on doors in Bostock Street as Lucy made her way to Great Homer Street. She thought of the one who had told her to keep her nose clean. It was OK for him to say that, she thought. There was nothing half-starved about him! The Welsh did OK for themselves. Strict chapel most of them and a large number of them lived up on Everton Heights. No boozing for them and they kept their noses to the grindstone, so she’d heard her gran say.

  Tears itched at the back of her eyes just thinking of the old woman. She was going to miss he
r gran’s warm, comforting presence. On the money front, too, they were going to miss her old age pension which had helped keep a roof over their heads. The girl gnawed on her lip, wondering how they were going to survive until her Uncle Mick came home.

  Chapter Two

  ‘What’s taken you two so long?’ grumbled Maureen, glancing away from the black crepe-draped mirror.

  Lucy flopped into a chair and yawned. It was three days since the riots and the peace on the streets was an uneasy one. Special policemen had been drafted in to work alongside the battalion of Welsh Fusiliers billeted at the Rotunda but they weren’t the only soldiers. There were loads of others, as well as battleships in the river. There had been plenty of arrests despite some looters having rid themselves of their ill-gotten gains by dumping them in the gardens near St Martin’s church.

  ‘Well?’ said Maureen, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘There was a huge queue at the cooperage because we were late getting there.’ Lucy muffled a yawn. She had not only delivered firewood that morning but helped her mother clean the house from top to bottom and visited Aunt Mac’s (she wasn’t a real aunt, just a neighbour from Everton Heights whom she’d known since she was born, who’d been given the courtesy title). ‘By the way, Callum’s home from the Army so I asked him to the wake as well.’ Callum was Aunt Mac’s son.

  ‘Good girl.’ Maureen turned back to the mirror. ‘Holy Mother! What do I look like? A clown! That’s what I look like,’ she said, sounding exasperated. ‘A clown!’

  ‘What’s a clown?’ asked Timmy, leaning against Lucy’s chair and gazing up at his mother.

  Lucy grinned, remembering being taken to a circus by her Yorkshire grandparents in Bridlington. ‘They have big red false noses and wear wigs and paint their faces white. They make yer laugh by acting daft.’

  Maureen whirled to face them again. ‘So my daughter thinks I’m a figure of fun?’ she said tartly.

  ‘No, Mam,’ said Lucy hastily. ‘And I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. You’re lovely. Even with flour on your face you look lovely.’