Home is Where the Heart Is. Freda Lightfoot

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СКАЧАТЬ a lollipop.’

      ‘Really? That’s a shame, because I’d love to eat you all up.’ He was kissing her again, this time her ear and eyelids, and then exploring her mouth with his tongue. As he bent to kiss her throat, she felt her senses skitter with longing, remembering how she used to spend wakeful nights dreaming of moments like this. Now, as his hand slid over her bottom, then down her thighs and began to inch up her skirts, she was filled with a flash of panic, and quickly put out a hand to stop him.

      ‘Sorry, but it’s been so long since we last kissed like this, I don’t want to rush things.’

      His eyes were glazed, as if in some dream world of his own. He carried on touching and kissing her, not really listening to a word she said. Cathie could hear him panting for breath, feel the hardness of him pressed against her. Suddenly overwhelmed by shyness, and feeling slightly taken advantage of, she gave him a shove and eased herself from his arms. ‘That’s enough, Alex. We aren’t married yet, remember.’

      He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his sweaty brow. ‘Sorry, I can hardly wait until we are. But you’re quite right, I should remember that you’re not some tart I picked up.’

      She gasped. ‘Is that what you used to do?’

      He burst out laughing, making a joke of it. ‘Of course not. Don’t fret, sweetie, I’m just impatient to enjoy life following the misery of war, but I need to remind myself how to behave.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Allow me to be the perfect gentleman and escort you home.’

      Smiling, Cathie hooked her arm into his and they set off again.

      When they reached the grimy old River Medlock littered with broken bricks and rubber tyres as it slid darkly into the culvert that took it under the city, Cathie felt a sting of shame for the shabby state of the district in which she lived. It wasn’t helped by the stink of coal dust in the air, and noise from the railways, which were ever present. Having lived in this part of Manchester all her life, she had become largely oblivious to such things, perceiving this as a fascinating historic and industrial region. But Castlefield, like many other parts of the city, had suffered a severe battering during the war. Now, seeing the area through her fiancé’s eyes, Cathie couldn’t imagine him ever settling for living here. This would not be the right place for Alex Ryman at all.

      ‘I’m sorry everywhere looks such a mess,’ she remarked quietly, as his gaze roamed over the depressing scenes: black pits marking the ground, heaps of rubble and broken buildings roped off. ‘But it’s been a difficult war. We’ve all suffered greatly.’

      He gave a snort of disbelief. ‘Not as much as those of us who were at the Front and suffered from constant air-attacks, shelling and fear.’

      ‘I’m sure that’s true, but it was pretty terrifying on the Home Front too. You can see from the damaged houses that there have been regular hits on Manchester, Salford and neighbouring areas.’

      ‘Not in recent years,’ he coldly remarked. ‘You’ve been most fortunate.’

      Cathie glanced at him in astonishment. ‘I do appreciate that you and your comrades must have suffered worse traumas, but we haven’t been as lucky as you might think. One night we rushed to the air raid shelter when the sirens went off, believing we’d be safe. Instead, it suffered a direct hit. Brave Sal saved both our lives by pushing us out of the bunk we were sharing just before the concrete roof collapsed.’

      Cathie had suffered an even worse incident, but, like Brenda, preferred not to dwell upon such things, certainly not right now, as Alex didn’t seem to be taking any of this in.

      ‘At least you survived,’ he said, a slightly scathing note in his tone of voice. ‘So what was the problem?’

      ‘The terror of it. We did escape largely unhurt on that occasion, if almost suffocated and blinded by the stink of gas,’ Cathie said, feeling slightly let down by his lack of sympathy. Not least by the dreadful fact that in the end her lovely sister had not survived, of which he was fully aware.

      A memory she preferred to keep blocked out suddenly resounded in her head with startling clarity, as if it had taken place only yesterday. It was during the Christmas Blitz in 1940 that their home in Duke Street had been bombed. The three of them had been rushing to the nearest air raid shelter when her foolish mother had suddenly ordered Cathie to go back and collect some warm blankets.

      ‘What? Are you mad? There are bombs falling all around.’

      ‘Then don’t just stand there arguing, get on with it afore it’s too late. It’s that cold we’ll all freeze to death if you don’t look sharp.’

      Cathie ran as fast as her legs could carry her down the street, her boots clattering on the cobbles. Fear pounded against her ribs, as she felt desperately anxious to carry out the task as quickly as possible and escape back to the shelter. But speed proved to be counter-productive. Had she walked at a sensible pace, all might have been well. Instead, the moment she raced in through the front door, the house was hit.

      She found herself suspended in mid-air for several long moments before walls and ceilings began to fall in upon her from all directions. It felt as if the world itself was collapsing. Cathie had never known such terror in her entire life. The dust and stink of smoke was suffocating, as she lay buried beneath the debris for what felt like days, but was probably only a few hours. She fought to move her limbs and crawl out of the mire but failed completely, a strange heat escalating through her. Was she about to be burned alive?

      She could hear crying, yelling, screaming, not realising it was her own voice. After that she must have passed out, as a darkness overwhelmed her. She finally woke to hear someone calling, ‘Can anybody hear me? Is there anyone there?’

      ‘Yes!’ Cathie screamed. ‘I am. Please help me.’

      She was badly cut and bruised, her dress scorched by the explosion, but at least alive. Others had been less fortunate. The sight that met Cathie’s eyes when she was lifted out and carried to a nearby ambulance would live with her for ever: faces burned, limbs missing, dreadful injuries among the walking wounded, and dismembered body parts scattered everywhere. It was an experience she would never forget. To this day, if she heard a crash of thunder, let alone a bomb going off, she would go running for cover into the pantry or wardrobe, but then suffer terribly from claustrophobia. She’d be riveted with fear just by the sound of the siren.

      Blinking away the nightmare flash of memory, she offered a cautionary smile. ‘Now that the war is over we can at last look forward to a bright future.’

      ‘Whatever that might be,’ Alex growled. ‘And so long as it doesn’t take too much effort to achieve.’

      He sounded somewhat dismissive and scathing, not at all the calm, well-mannered young man he used to be. Perhaps the war had badly affected him, after all. Perhaps physically he was reasonably well, but not mentally. Returning to Civvy Street and the shambles all around them couldn’t be easy, as Steve had tried to explain to her.

      Cathie was filled with sympathy for his anguish. She too had grown increasingly devastated by the losses all around her, of bomb craters and fires leaping up everywhere, shops she’d once loved reduced to ashes, friends fleeing to the country to escape the city, and wounded men walking the streets. Anything even vaguely disturbing upset her greatly. Speaking of these experiences was quite beyond her, although she prayed that one day she might find the courage to share her pain with Alex. And he might share his with her. That way, they might both begin to recover.

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