Through the Storm Read Free

anything you particularly need?’
    ‘A pound of ’taters, and any sort of meat that’s going, as long as it’s not that whalemeat. It’s dead horrible, tastes like cod liver oil. Even Paddy O’Hara’s dog wouldn’t eat it when I offered him a bit.’
    Kitty sighed. ‘Me dad doesn’t like it, either.’
    ‘Are you all right, Kitty? You don’t look at all yourself this morning.’ She was a pretty girl, Kitty Quigley – well, not so much a girl, she must be all of twenty-six or seven – with a mass of unruly brown curls and wide-apart hazel eyes that looked at you with an almost startling clarity. Although she never used a scrap of that make-up stuff, her cheeks and lips were a pale rosy pink. She was always dressed nice, even if it was only to go to the Marsh Lane shops: but then, thought Nan, the shops were as far as Kitty ever got, what with her dad being virtually housebound and needing constant attention since his accident on the docks. She was wearing her lemon-coloured cotton frock with white piping on the collar and the belt. A timid girl, though with a sunny personality, today she looked unusually wan and downcast.
    ‘I’m okay,’ she said in a tone of voice that told Nan she wasn’t okay at all. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can with the shopping. You can give me the money when I get back.’
    ‘All right, luv. There’s no hurry. I’ll see you later.’
    Kitty left, and Aggie Donovan came sidling over and nodded at her retreating figure. ‘They got a letter this morning at number twenty. It came in a brown envelope.’
    ‘Did it now!’ said Nan, adding sarcastically, ‘What did it say?’
    But the sarcasm was wasted on Aggie. ‘How should I know?’ she asked indignantly.
    As she made her way towards the shops in Marsh Lane, Kitty thought about the letter that had arrived for her that morning. Apparently, the Ministry of Labour classified her as a single woman without dependants and demanded that she present herself at the local Labour Exchange next Monday morning at half past ten to register for war work.
    There was nothing in the world Kitty wanted more than to get a job and do her bit towards the war effort. There were times when she felt as if the conflict was passing her by; that one morning she would wake up and it would all be over and Kitty Quigley wouldn’t have done a single thing to help her country win, not even in a voluntary capacity. In 1939, when it first started, Dad had nearly been in tears when she suggested she become an Air-Raid Warden or an Auxiliary Fire Fighter or join the Women’s Voluntary Service.
    ‘But what happens if those air raids they’re all talking about get going?’ he asked piteously. ‘Your poor ould dad’ll be left all on his own.’
    ‘You can always go to the shelter,’ Kitty said reasonably. ‘They’ve built one only just round the corner. One of the neighbours’ll come in and help you get there,’ she added quickly before he could raise that particular objection.
    But Dad immediately thought of another. ‘Say if the worst happens and you’re killed! Who’ll look after me then? I’d have to go in a home.’ His eyes became moist. ‘I couldn’t stand that, Kitty, luv. I’d sooner be dead meself than go in a home. No, I think we should stick together. That’s what families are supposed to do during wartime, stick together if they can.’
    Kitty loved her dad dearly. She couldn’t stand it when he cried. She knew he missed his mates and the camaraderie of the docks. He hated being an invalid and dependent on his daughter for virtually every little thing. For his sake, she immediately gave up all thought of joining a voluntary organisation and later on, during the raids, she and Dad sat under the stairs when the bombs fell on Bootle. Sometimes, during a lull, she could hear singing coming from the shelter around the corner, where everyone seemed to be having a dead good time despite the horrendous things happening outside.
    There was a