When it came to fighting for his country, Danny Callaghan was damaged goods.
By a stroke of luck, Danny had shown an uncommon aptitude for solving puzzles and crosswords while recuperating, and this had led to him being recruited to join Western Approaches Command, as they were in desperate need of that rare kind of skill to help decipher enemy signals. Frank Feeny worked there as a naval officer, and had recommended his old friend, against some opposition from the more traditional superior officers. Danny had only ever worked down on the docks up till then and had been a tearaway himself when in his teens.
This was exactly what was on Danny’s mind as he reread his little brother’s letter. He recognised that feeling of wanting to join up, do his bit, and also see the world and test himself against the odds, take a risk and worry about the consequences later. It was precisely why he wanted to protect Tommy from it. Now he was older, he wished he’d paid more attention at school, but at the time he couldn’t be bothered, couldn’t wait for it to end so he could get out and live his own life. It had meant that his work at Derby House had been extra hard to begin with as he’d had to learn so much from scratch. He could see with hindsight how he would have benefited from listening to his teachers when they’d insisted he could have gone further. All right, the family had needed him to go out and earn his keep – but he’d wasted the last year in the classroom. He wanted better for Tommy.
Now he looked across at Sarah, with her sleek brown hair pulled back away from her caring face, knowing that she’d be worried for him. He didn’t want his anxieties to burden her. ‘No, I’d much rather he stayed where he is. At least we know he’s safe there, and well fed.’
‘And Michael and Megan look up to him,’ Sarah said. ‘They’d miss him if he came back.’
‘It’s been good for him to be like a big brother to them,’ Danny agreed. ‘The trouble was, we all let him get away with murder because he was the youngest and he could wind us round his little finger. Now he’s had to grow up a bit.’
‘Sounds like he’s started to grow up a lot,’ Sarah said ruefully, getting to her feet and opening a cupboard. ‘Here, Danny, I’ll put this on a plate so you can have it now while it’s still warm. News always feels better after a full meal.’
She knew her way around the Callaghan kitchen as well as her own, as – ever since Kitty had left – Dolly would often make a bit extra for Danny and have Sarah take it across the street. ‘There you are.’ The delicious smell filled the small room, and Danny tucked in gratefully.
‘Thanks, Sar.’ Finally he pushed the plate away. ‘You’re right. You can’t make good decisions on an empty stomach.’
‘I wonder what Kitty thinks?’ Sarah replied. ‘Do you think he’ll have written to her as well? It’s not up to just you, is it?’
‘She’ll have to know,’ Danny said. ‘Even if he hasn’t asked her, I’m going to tell her. Sometimes he listens to her. She can persuade him to stay at the farm better than I can.’
‘Not much she can do about it from wherever it is she is down south,’ Sarah pointed out. ‘All the same, you’d better write to her. And she’ll want to know all about the new baby. Mam sent everybody a letter to say Ellen had been born but didn’t have time to give any details.’
Danny looked sceptical. ‘That’s more your sort of thing, isn’t it? I don’t know what Kitty will want to know. I’m glad for Rita, of course I am, but all babies look the same to me.’
‘Danny!’ Sarah gave him a straight look. ‘That’s your niece you’re talking about. Honestly, you men, you’re hopeless sometimes.’ Her expression was affectionate though. She could never be truly cross with Danny. He was too good a man for that. She knew he was just teasing – in that special way he seemed to reserve just for her.
‘You tell me what she’ll want to know, then,’ he grinned. He had realised long ago that Sarah knew him better then he knew himself. ‘Better still, write a note and I’ll put it in with my letter about Tommy. That’ll sweeten the pill.’ He grew serious again. ‘Sar, just think of it, young Tommy wanting to put his life on the line like that. I can’t have that. It’s too much. Somehow, we have to stop him.’
Frank Feeny held the heavy door open for Wren Sylvia Hemsley as they made their way out of Derby House at the end of their shifts. It was unusual for them both to finish work at the same time and he thought they should make the most of it, so earlier when they’d met at tea break he’d suggested going to the cinema. She had said she’d think about it, but wasn’t sure if she would have to stay late to cover for a sick colleague.
Now, though, luck was on their side. Sylvia had been able to get off on time, and they emerged into the early spring evening. Liverpool city centre had taken a pounding earlier in the war and the ruined buildings stood testament to the bombing raids, but also to the indomitable spirit of the people, who had refused to be cowed. At first everyone had been hesitant to walk through the damaged streets, and there had been real danger from falling debris and potholes opening up, especially as there could be no street lighting. They’d got used to it now, though, and the area was beginning to come to life again. The evenings were slowly lengthening and a feeling of optimism was in the air. There had been no major raids over the city for some time, and there was a tangible sense of the tide of war being on the turn. The Allies had won the battle at El Alamein in North Africa and were making inroads into Italy. The attacks by U-boats on vessels in the North Atlantic had dropped considerably, much to the relief of many in the city, whose fathers, sons and brothers sailed that route, as members of the Royal Navy, Merchant Navy or Fleet Air Arm. Frank knew that many of the gains in the North Atlantic were down to what went on in the two levels of basement rooms in Derby House and the nearby Tactical Unit, all plotting the enemy’s positions, working out the best way to intercept and destroy them.
He looked at Sylvia and grinned. They deserved their evening off. ‘What do you fancy seeing?’ he asked.
Sylvia smiled back. ‘How about Casablanca again?’
Frank shrugged. He’d have preferred to go to something new, but Sylvia was a big fan of Humphrey Bogart. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It’s on near your billet, isn’t it?’
Sylvia beamed at him. ‘Yes, and we’ll just have time to get there. I’d love to see it again.’ She began to sing as they walked along. ‘Ta da ta da ta … as time goes by …’
Frank raised an eyebrow. Sylvia was a dedicated Wren and highly skilled at her job, very pretty and great company, but even her nearest and dearest couldn’t claim she was musical. She couldn’t hold a tune to save her life. He told himself not to be so judgemental – she had plenty of other fine qualities. But he’d been brought up with music in the house, as Pop was always playing his accordion as they grew up, and many a time he’d taken it down to the Sailor’s Rest and joined in when someone else was on the piano. The children would gather outside and join in the words of any songs they knew. Frank couldn’t remember how old he had been the first time he’d gone along, it was so much a part of his childhood. He had never questioned it – keeping in tune was just what you did. He realised he should count himself lucky that he could hold a note without thinking about it.
Involuntarily his mind flashed back to one occasion when Kitty had been there, singing along in her schoolgirl voice, perfectly in rhythm and in key. She was another one who’d never had to work out how to sing, she just did it naturally. He wondered where she was now – somewhere down south, Danny Callaghan had said, living out in the sticks. Frank gave a small smile. She would hate that.
‘What are you laughing about?’ Sylvia demanded, catching sight of his expression. She turned to face him. ‘Are you making fun of my singing? It’s all right, I know you do that; you’re not the first.’ She sighed. ‘We can’t all be Vera Lynn, or what’s her name, your friend from round here? Gloria