The Mersey Daughter: A heartwarming Saga full of tears and triumph

‘Danny, what are you doing?’ Sarah set down her mug.

‘Well, you just said they’re all there. We’ll go and tell them now. No time like the present.’ And before she could stop him, Danny headed out of the door, a new spring in his step.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_6d0e5828-5e33-5470-9dad-942a28b41217)

‘Now are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Rita was torn between wanting to get going as soon as possible and anxiety that her sister-in-law wouldn’t be able to manage. She hastily buttoned her coat against the chilly spring breeze blowing through the open shop door.

‘Of course!’ Violet assured her. ‘Don’t even give it a thought, I’ll be absolutely fine. What can go wrong? You get off and see those children. There’s Danny now with the cart. Go on, stop mithering, I’ll see you later.’ She all but pushed Rita out of the door.

Rita hopped up on the cart beside Danny, tucking a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. ‘If there are any problems just make a note and I’ll sort everything out later,’ she called. She waved as Danny lifted the reins and the horse began the steady clip-clop that would take her to her beloved children.

Violet waved back cheerfully but gave a sigh of relief as she shut the shop door. She was sure that she could cope, but somehow not having Rita around made her feel more worried than she expected. She glanced around the place. Rita had dealt with the early morning rush, when the dock workers came in to get their newspapers, cigarettes and other essentials, and now everything was quiet. This was when Winnie would normally take over, but she’d gone back to her bed in a huff once she learnt that Violet had been drafted in to help, muttering what were most probably insults as she retreated up the stairs. Violet could have sworn the older woman had been unsteady on her feet, her eyes red, but she wasn’t going to dwell on it. She’d rather face a day in the shop on her own than share the cramped space with Winnie, who in their short acquaintance had been nothing but unpleasant. Still, she wasn’t going to let that upset her; according to Rita and Dolly, the miserable old bag was like that to everyone.

Violet decided the shelves could do with a clean. Poor Rita, she must never have the time to do it, so this would be something she’d appreciate. Violet wasn’t scared of hard work and elbow grease and she soon had the surfaces gleaming. Beaming, she looked around in satisfaction. That was a big improvement. Working in a shop was a doddle, she decided, as she put her duster behind the counter and smoothed down the front of her printed overall. Rita had been fussing about nothing.

No sooner had she settled herself on the stool behind the counter than the bell rang and a plump figure in a plaid headscarf came in. Violet recognised Mrs Mawdsley, a friend of Dolly’s from the WVS. She was a bit of a dragon when you first met her but nice underneath.

‘Oh, it’s you, dear!’ Mrs Mawdsley peered short-sightedly over her round glasses. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here. Has there been an emergency? I do hope everyone’s all right …’

‘Nothing to worry about, Mrs Mawdsley,’ Violet said hurriedly, cutting off her customer before she could work herself into a tizz. ‘Rita’s gone to see her children for the day and so I’m standing in. How can I help you?’

The older woman undid her scarf and came closer. ‘Well, that’s very good of you, dear. That’s what families are for, though, isn’t it? I won’t keep you for long. I’m looking for some clothes pegs.’

Violet smiled in relief. ‘Well, you won’t need ration coupons for those.’ She’d been slightly confused by Rita’s explanation of which goods were rationed and which weren’t, and how the system worked, but this request should be simple enough. ‘Household goods are on these shelves here – but I expect you know that better than I do.’

Mrs Mawdsley beamed at the suggestion she knew her way around the shop better than the staff. ‘I do indeed, dear. Oh, someone’s made this look nice. Was that you? Dolly’s always saying what an asset you are around the house, and I expect Mrs Kennedy will be delighted.’

Violet smiled back but said nothing. She doubted Winnie would be delighted about anything.

‘Here we are, then. I’ll have two sets, a small and a large, just in case.’ The woman fiddled with her purse. ‘Now, I’m afraid I have no change, but I hope that won’t be a problem.’

‘Of course not.’ Violet held out her hand and Mrs Mawdsley gave her half a crown. Violet’s smile began to falter. Mental arithmetic was not her strong point. It was bad enough that there were two things to add up, but they were at different prices, and that made it more difficult. She looked around for a notebook. Maybe if she wrote it down it would be easier.

The doorbell rang again. A frail old lady stepped inside, drawing her shawl around her thin shoulders. ‘Hello, Mrs Mawdsley,’ she said in a tremulous voice. ‘And … it’s not Rita, is it? No, I can see you have different hair, young lady. My memory’s not what it was, you’ll have to—’

‘It’s Violet, Mrs Ashby,’ said Violet, recognising the oldest inhabitant of Empire Street. ‘I married Eddy Feeny, you know. Haven’t seen you since we were in the shelter together for the last air raid.’

‘That’s it!’ The old lady’s face lit up. ‘So you’re helping out here, are you? I’m glad to see you. Now maybe you can help me with my sugar ration. I like it when Rita does it, she’s always very fair, but sometimes,’ she dropped her voice, ‘Mrs Kennedy gets it a bit wrong and there never seems to be enough in the packet.’ She reached into her battered handbag.

‘Don’t you fret, Mrs Ashby, I’ll see you right,’ Violet assured her. ‘Let me see, I know the stamp for the coupons is back here somewhere …’

Mrs Mawdsley leant across the counter and tapped the front of a small drawer. ‘In here, dear. I think you’ll find that’s where it usually is.’

‘Oh yes, that’s the place, Rita did show me.’ Violet was getting really flustered now. ‘So, you give me your coupon …’

‘But I just did, dear.’ Mrs Ashby’s voice shook a little but she was adamant. ‘One moment ago. You’ve taken it already.’

Violet clapped her hand to her forehead. ‘Silly me. What am I like? Yes, you gave me the coupon, now where …’

‘It’s by the till where you put it,’ Mrs Mawdsley explained. ‘Right next to my half-crown. You’ve still got to give me my change.’

‘Yes, so I have.’ Violet stared at the counter. ‘It was two packs of pegs, one large and one small, so that’s … that’s …’

‘You owe me one and six, dear,’ said Mrs Mawdsley, taking pity on Violet’s inexperience. ‘You do know what that looks like, don’t you?’

Violet wilted under the gentle sarcasm then drew herself up straight. ‘Of course I do.’ She pinged open the till. ‘Here you are. And here you are, Mrs Ashby.’ She carefully cancelled the precious coupon. ‘Shall I put the sugar in your handbag?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Feeny,’ said the old lady, her eyes bright. ‘Oh, doesn’t it sound funny to say that. But now Dolly isn’t the only Mrs Feeny on Empire Street. Your Eddy beat his brother Frank down the aisle, who’d have thought it? He’s a dark horse, your young man. But you must be very proud of him.’

‘Oh I am, Mrs Ashby.’ Suddenly Violet found there was a lump in her throat. It was so long since she’d seen her husband, and being in the Merchant Navy he was putting himself in danger every minute of the day. But it wouldn’t do to show her fear for his safety. She forced herself to smile. ‘He’s one in a million, my Eddy. I’ll tell him you were asking after him when I next write.’

Mrs Mawdsley gave her a knowing look. ‘Chin up, that’s the spirit. Give him something to be proud of when he comes home. It’s not easy having your man away, is it? I remember when Mr Mawdsley was away during the last war …’ She fell silent for an instant and her face became unexpectedly tender. ‘Ah, well. It doesn’t do to dwell. You’ll soon get the hang of this place and it will be a big help to Rita.’ She linked her arm with that of the old lady. ‘Come along, Mrs Ashby, I’ll see you home.’

As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Violet collapsed on the stool. She couldn’t believe how tricky that had been, and it was only two customers with simple orders. How did Rita do it, serving all the dock workers practically at once? She supposed it was all a question of practice. Well, she had given her word that she would help out and she couldn’t back out now. Her pride wouldn’t let her – and she wouldn’t give Winnie Kennedy the satisfaction.

Back home after his day out, Danny shivered as he tried to coax the fire alight. Who would have thought it could be so cold riding on Pop’s cart? His hands were freezing. But it had been worth it, to see the pleasure on Rita’s face and the delighted smiles from Michael and Megan. Of course Tommy had been there too and he’d loved having his big brother coming to visit, and had shown Danny round every inch of the farm. Danny had to admit he’d been impressed; Tommy had sounded as if he knew what he was talking about when he’d explained how he looked after the animals and what some of the machinery did. All three children were pictures of health, thriving on the good food that Joan and Seth, the farming couple, could provide. Rita had almost cried at the sight of Megan, who she’d confessed she was most worried about. Megan had hated it when Charlie had taken her away from Empire Street and had become nervous and withdrawn. Now she was running around non-stop, her cheeks rosy and her eyes shining. It was her job to check for fresh eggs every morning, which Joan then scrambled for them all with loads of butter. Danny’s mouth had watered at the description of their breakfasts. It had been a long time since he’d had loads of butter, even with his connections on the docks.

Finally he got the fire lit. Then he turned to the bag that Joan had insisted he take back with him: there was some of the famous precious butter, a box of eggs gathered by Megan, some of Joan’s home-made bread and scones, and some vegetables straight from the field.

Tommy had laughed when Joan had handed it over. ‘Danny don’t know how to cook,’ he’d said. ‘Kitty did all of that for him.’

Danny had pretended to clip him round the ear. ‘How do you think I’ve been managing all this time? I’m not completely useless, I’ll have you know.’ But now, looking at the bag of treats, he had to admit that Kitty would have known exactly what to do with them. He sighed; surely it wasn’t beyond him to make a vegetable stew? He could ask Rita for advice.

His thoughts turned to what Rita had said on the way back. On the outward journey she had talked of nothing but the children, her worries for them and her fears of what damage Charlie’s behaviour might have caused. Seeing the pair of them so happy and settled had calmed her anxiety on that front. So on the way back their conversation had become more personal.

Danny had known Rita all his life and she was almost like another sister to him – particularly as she was so close to his own sister, Kitty. He’d never had much time for her husband, thinking that Charlie was too full of himself, always ready to look down on everyone, and with very little cause as far as Danny could see. But he’d been too busy with his own life to take much notice of what had gone on nine years ago. He’d known Rita had been walking out with his big brother Jack back then, but that was about as far as his interest went.

On their journey back, as they had sat together on Pop’s old cart, Rita had asked him for a favour.

‘I have to tell you something, Danny,’ she’d said, nervously retying the knot of her headscarf. The worn material had slipped back over her wavy red hair and her hands shook slightly as the wind grew chillier. ‘I swore to your brother Jack that I’d write to him now he’s away and I want to keep my promise. He’s been writing back to me. The thing is, he always wrote care of Kitty …’

‘Oh, right,’ Danny had said, not sure in which direction this conversation was heading. If two old friends wanted to write to each other, who was he to stop them? But he couldn’t see what it had to do with him.

‘Well, now she’s not here any more,’ Rita went on, pausing a little and then resuming when Danny didn’t get the hint. ‘Look, I don’t want him to send them direct, as Winnie would get hold of them and then have the wrong idea.’

True enough, Danny thought, nodding. Winnie was mean enough to use that sort of thing against her − she would do anything to stir up spite and hurtful gossip.

‘There’s nothing bad in them, Danny,’ Rita had assured him, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘We aren’t doing anything wrong. It’s just two friends writing to each other. He gives me such good advice about the children, and now Charlie’s not around … It means the world to me to have his letters. Sometimes, when Winnie’s getting me down and I’m tired out from doing a late shift then working in the shop … well, it peps me up to hear from him. I don’t want to ask you to do something you don’t feel is right but … would you mind … could he send them to you? Then I could pop by and pick them up.’

Danny could see that this made sense. If Rita found Jack’s letters a comfort, then who was he to deny her that? He could see how Jack’s advice would be valuable to her, as his big brother had always been the steady, reliable one, unlike himself in the good old days before the fire when he’d had lots of carefree fun with numerous girls. Jack had always been sensible. Rita needed someone like that outside her own family, where nobody could say a thing without the entire house knowing. Jack would be the voice of reason. So he’d agreed. Jack would be pleased that Danny was prepared to help; he’d maybe even think his irrepressible younger brother was finally growing up.

Danny had just made himself a sandwich with Joan’s bread and butter and some Spam he’d found in the cupboard when there was a knock at the door. Some instinct made him shove the bag of farm produce away out of sight before going to see who it was. Usually he wouldn’t have bothered, but somehow his suspicions were raised.

He opened the front door and there was Alfie Delaney.

Danny groaned inwardly. His former colleague from the docks was the last person he wanted to see. But he couldn’t exactly turn him away.

‘Evening, Danny,’ said Alfie, all smiles. That had to mean he wanted something. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’