Chapter Twenty-Two
Early Spring 1944
Dolly Feeny tried to shut out the sound of her oldest daughter screaming.
The sound echoed around the small terraced house, seeming to go on and on. Probably the whole road could hear the noise – Empire Street wasn’t long, leading as it did down to the dock road in Bootle, with a corner shop at one end, a pub at the other and the Mersey beyond the dockyards. On a normal day Rita would be behind the counter in that shop, either before or after working her shift as a nursing sister at the nearby hospital. But today wasn’t a normal day. Besides, everyone would know the reason for the screaming and would be with Rita all the way. Dolly put the kettle on again for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. No, it wasn’t every day that she prepared to welcome a new grandchild into the world.
Pop, Dolly’s husband, came into the kitchen, his white hair bright in the gloom of the cloudy day. He’d been up half the night, thanks to his duties as an ARP warden. Even though the raids that had plagued Merseyside for the earlier years of the war had died down, there was still the threat of danger from the crumbling buildings, or streets that hadn’t yet been cleared, and last night there had been a fire in an abandoned warehouse. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the smell of burning out of his hair or from his skin. If it had been a normal day he would have had a bath, filling it right up to the four-inch regulation line they all had to adhere to nowadays, and staying in it for as long as the water retained any comforting warmth. Today, however, there were more important things on his mind.
‘Do you think she’s all right?’ he asked anxiously. He very rarely admitted to being worried about anything; he was the rock on whom the whole family depended. But the cries from upstairs were enough to shake anyone’s confidence. He dearly loved Rita, as he did all his children, and couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her.
‘Course she is.’ Dolly spoke warmly but firmly. ‘You weren’t in the house when I had any of our five. It sounds much worse than it is, and remember she’s had two already. She’ll be right as rain.’ She smiled reassuringly, hoping that what she said was true. Nine years had passed since Rita had last given birth and she’d lost weight since then, thanks to the wartime diet and her non-stop hard work. But she was fit and healthy and, even more importantly, was no longer married to that cowardly deserter Charlie Kennedy. Now she had finally married her childhood sweetheart Jack Callaghan, a pilot with the Fleet Air Arm, and as steady and loving a husband as any woman could ever hope for. Dolly knew that Rita wanted nothing more than to bear this baby safely so that Jack could come home on leave and meet the precious creature. This must be the most longed-for child in the whole of Merseyside. God knew both of its parents had been through hell and back before getting together.
Dolly’s ears pricked up. ‘Listen, Pop.’ She wiped her strong, reddened hands on her faded print apron. ‘That’s a different noise, that is. Won’t be long now.’ She lifted the boiling kettle across to where the teapot stood ready. ‘Best have a cup now, as who knows when we’ll get the next one.’
‘Are you sure? Sounds just the same to me.’ Pop looked doubtfully at his wife. He wanted to believe her but didn’t trust himself to do so. It seemed no time at all since Rita herself was a baby, a pale-skinned little beauty with deep red hair. Now here she was having her own third child. Where had all those years gone?
‘Mam! Have you got any more hot water down there?’ came a voice from the top of the stairs.
‘I’ll bring it right up, Sarah love.’ Dolly emptied the rest of the water from the kettle into a large enamel jug, and then set another lot to boil just in case. ‘Pop, why don’t you fill the biggest pan from the tap and put that on to heat up as well.’ She bustled to the door, all anxiety gone now that there was something useful to do.
Pop looked around uncertainly. They’d lived in this house for almost all of their married lives and yet he still wasn’t sure where all the utensils in the kitchen were kept. That was Dolly’s territory. Still, this was no time to complain. He opened every cupboard door until he found the pan he hoped she meant.
Meanwhile, Dolly raced up the stairs as quickly as she could, belying her fifty-something years, but careful not to spill a drop of water. ‘Here you are, love.’ She handed the battered jug to her youngest daughter, who swiftly turned back to the bedroom and the screams.
If anyone had told Dolly at the beginning of the war that just a few years later young Sarah would be supervising the birth
