scene? Where was the oxyacetyline gear? A tribunal was appointed to investigate.
It wasn’t until November that the Thetis was salvaged and able to deliver her dead for proper burial. The ship was pronounced sound enough to return by sea to its place of birth in Birkenhead. At any other time, this would have been headline news, but by now the country was already in the grip of a tragedy that would result in far greater loss of life than on a single submarine. The unthinkable had happened: Great Britain was at war with Germany and immersed in the struggle to survive.
Flo Clancy drifted through the months after Tommy O’Mara died. Everyone wanted to know what had happened to her lovely smile. Mr Fritz gave her the lightest jobs, much to the chagrin of Josie Driver who turned quite nasty. Mam bought an iron tonic, which Flo took dutifully three times a day, though she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Only Bel Macintyre, whom she saw regularly, knew why Flo no longer smiled. But Bel knew only the half of it. Flo had more things than the loss of Tommy to worry about.
On the first Sunday in September, a day blessed with shimmering sunshine and an atmosphere as heady as wine, Flo sat in the parlour listening to Albert’s wireless.
She heard Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, announce that the country was at war and wished it mattered as much to her as it did to the rest of her family. Sally had burst into tears. “What’s going to happen to Jock?” she wept.
Jock Wilson had been writing to Sally ever since Whit Monday when they’d met on the New Brighton ferry.
He’d been back to Liverpool to see her whenever he could manage a few days’ leave.
Albert turned off the wireless. He looked grim. Martha reached across and self-consciously took his hand. Poor Mam’s face seemed to collapse before their eyes. “Oh, I don’t half wish your dad was here!” she cried.
But Flo was too concerned with her own luckless state to care. She’d scarcely noticed missing the first period, and it wasn’t until July that she had become alarmed. By the time July had given way to August and there was still no sign, she realised, with increasing horror, that she was pregnant with Tommy O’Mara’s child.
Millie
Sharp fingers of light strobed the dark ceiling of the nightclub, interlocking briefly; blue, red, green, then yellow, followed by blue again. The disc jockey’s overwrought, grating voice announced a change of record, though his words could scarcely be heard above the music booming from the huge speakers on either side of him.
In the centre of the large room, which was mainly painted black, the dancers gyrated, faces blank. Only their bodies reacted to the pounding rhythm of Joey Negro’s “Can’t Take it With You”, the sound bouncing off the ceiling and the walls.
I could feel the noise vibrating through the plastic seat and the soles of my shoes. It throbbed through the table and up my arms. Although I hadn’t danced so far, the heat felt tremendous and my neck was damp with perspiration.
Beside me, James didn’t look bored exactly, but definitely fed up. He’d been like that since we met earlier, which wasn’t a bit like him. I felt put out. After a stressful week, I’d been looking forward to Saturday and his relaxing company. The friends we’d come with, Julie and Gavin, had got up to dance about half an hour ago, though I could see no sign of them on the floor.
I put my mouth against James’s ear and shouted, “Enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, I’m having a wonderful time.” He spoke with a sarcasm I’d never heard before. “Want another drink?”
I shook my head just as Julie and Gavin returned.
Gavin was an old schoolfriend of James, a massively built yet graceful man who played amateur rugby. He surreptitiously removed a piece of folded paper from the breast pocket of his silk jacket and emptied the contents on to the table. Three pink tablets rolled out.
“Eleven quid each,” he
It wasn’t until November that the Thetis was salvaged and able to deliver her dead for proper burial. The ship was pronounced sound enough to return by sea to its place of birth in Birkenhead. At any other time, this would have been headline news, but by now the country was already in the grip of a tragedy that would result in far greater loss of life than on a single submarine. The unthinkable had happened: Great Britain was at war with Germany and immersed in the struggle to survive.
Flo Clancy drifted through the months after Tommy O’Mara died. Everyone wanted to know what had happened to her lovely smile. Mr Fritz gave her the lightest jobs, much to the chagrin of Josie Driver who turned quite nasty. Mam bought an iron tonic, which Flo took dutifully three times a day, though she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Only Bel Macintyre, whom she saw regularly, knew why Flo no longer smiled. But Bel knew only the half of it. Flo had more things than the loss of Tommy to worry about.
On the first Sunday in September, a day blessed with shimmering sunshine and an atmosphere as heady as wine, Flo sat in the parlour listening to Albert’s wireless.
She heard Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, announce that the country was at war and wished it mattered as much to her as it did to the rest of her family. Sally had burst into tears. “What’s going to happen to Jock?” she wept.
Jock Wilson had been writing to Sally ever since Whit Monday when they’d met on the New Brighton ferry.
He’d been back to Liverpool to see her whenever he could manage a few days’ leave.
Albert turned off the wireless. He looked grim. Martha reached across and self-consciously took his hand. Poor Mam’s face seemed to collapse before their eyes. “Oh, I don’t half wish your dad was here!” she cried.
But Flo was too concerned with her own luckless state to care. She’d scarcely noticed missing the first period, and it wasn’t until July that she had become alarmed. By the time July had given way to August and there was still no sign, she realised, with increasing horror, that she was pregnant with Tommy O’Mara’s child.
Millie
Sharp fingers of light strobed the dark ceiling of the nightclub, interlocking briefly; blue, red, green, then yellow, followed by blue again. The disc jockey’s overwrought, grating voice announced a change of record, though his words could scarcely be heard above the music booming from the huge speakers on either side of him.
In the centre of the large room, which was mainly painted black, the dancers gyrated, faces blank. Only their bodies reacted to the pounding rhythm of Joey Negro’s “Can’t Take it With You”, the sound bouncing off the ceiling and the walls.
I could feel the noise vibrating through the plastic seat and the soles of my shoes. It throbbed through the table and up my arms. Although I hadn’t danced so far, the heat felt tremendous and my neck was damp with perspiration.
Beside me, James didn’t look bored exactly, but definitely fed up. He’d been like that since we met earlier, which wasn’t a bit like him. I felt put out. After a stressful week, I’d been looking forward to Saturday and his relaxing company. The friends we’d come with, Julie and Gavin, had got up to dance about half an hour ago, though I could see no sign of them on the floor.
I put my mouth against James’s ear and shouted, “Enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, I’m having a wonderful time.” He spoke with a sarcasm I’d never heard before. “Want another drink?”
I shook my head just as Julie and Gavin returned.
Gavin was an old schoolfriend of James, a massively built yet graceful man who played amateur rugby. He surreptitiously removed a piece of folded paper from the breast pocket of his silk jacket and emptied the contents on to the table. Three pink tablets rolled out.
“Eleven quid each,” he
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