Peace In My Heart. Freda Lightfoot

reaction I know well,’ he softly said. ‘I’ve never confessed this to you but I too lost my mother.’

      ‘Oh, no! Do you mean she was killed?’

      He gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Nope. I reckon she’s still alive some place but I’ve no idea where, as I’m obviously of no great importance to her. After my father was killed in the Royal Navy destroyer, HMS Basilisk near Dunkirk in 1940, she fell into a dreadful state of grief and then a year later ran off with one of his friends.’

      ‘My goodness, what a dreadful thing to do, to abandon her son. You must have been utterly heartbroken. Me too, having lost contact with my mother, father and even my young brother Danny.’

      ‘That’s the reason I offered to help you find her, Joanne. Why would I not do what I can to help, when I fully understand the sense of loss you feel?’

      ‘Much appreciated,’ she said, and for the first time they shared a warm smile, offering each other comfort. ‘I’m so looking forward to searching the place we used to live, quite hopeful that I’ll at last find my mam.’

      Once they arrived in Manchester they left the crowded platform and walked down Deansgate enjoying glancing at all the shops. Turning along Bridge Street, they passed the Pack Horse, then went all the way down Lower Byrom Street, trailing up and down several other streets too. Joanne found it quite devastating to see how many houses and factories had been destroyed and was appalled when she saw children playing games in the rubble and old air raid shelters. Narrowing her eyes, she carefully studied them all in case her brother was among them but sadly saw no sign of Danny. There were still sandbags lying around and no signposts, so searching Castlefield for her mother was proving to be something of a nightmare.

      When Joanne saw a woman walking some distance ahead wearing the kind of coat and headscarf she recalled her mother once wore, she desperately called out to her. ‘Mam, is that you?’ Turning to give her a quick glance, the woman walked away at great speed and disappeared round a corner, not troubling to respond.

      ‘Was that your mother?’ Bernie earnestly asked her. ‘If so, I could run after her to tell her you’re here.’

      ‘Obviously not. If it was, she’d have come rushing to me with her arms outstretched to give me a hug. The problem is that I’m no longer certain of what she’ll look like after all these years,’ Joanne stated despondently.

      ‘Will she recognize you?’ he asked, giving her a wry smile. ‘You’re a lovely girl now, no longer a child.’

      Joanne felt herself blushing even as she frowned, wondering if that had been the problem or had she been mistaken in guessing that woman was her mother? Maybe she’d lost all memory of her? Surely not.

      When they finally arrived at the street close to Potato Wharf where they’d lived when she was a child, Joanne looked in horror at the derelict mess of the many houses bombed out back in 1940 during the Christmas Blitz, including their own. She couldn’t even find the house where her cousin Cathie had lived quite close by, or homes of any of their other friends. Shocked by the sight of the dreadful state the city was in and the fact she could find no sign of anyone she knew, Joanne felt grateful when Bernie gave her a clean handkerchief to mop up the tears rolling down her cheeks.

      ‘Come on, cheer up. Let’s find somewhere for a bit of a snack. We could then start exploring the mills or any other places you remember she worked.’

      Looking up at him with gratitude, Joanne gave a nod. ‘Good idea. Let’s go to the Crown.’

      They ate an excellent lunch of cod and chips at the pub, which Bernie insisted on paying for. He talked about how he’d enjoyed doing a lot of cooking. ‘I had to learn how to cook when my mum left home. Fortunately, I was sort of adopted by my aunts and they readily accommodated me, which was just as well considering I had no way of paying the rent on the house I was living in. Being fourteen years old, I offered to work for them, which they happily accepted and have taught me a great deal about cooking since.

      ‘I remember when I once managed to find some real eggs from a local farmer that I made custard tarts for all our guests. The Poles ate the custard but left the pastry untouched. Aunt Annie was infuriated when she saw that and gave them a telling-off over not eating the delicious pastry, speaking to them as if they were naughty children.’ He burst out laughing. ‘It was simply ignorance on their part, of course, never having had a custard tart before, and they quickly did as they were told and gobbled it up.’

      Joanne burst out laughing also. ‘Well done. I’m sure they very much enjoyed it.’

      ‘Oh aye, they did, claiming it was delicious. Now the war is over I’ve moved on to gain training for more useful jobs. I’m having a go at decorating, plumbing and some simple building work. No idea if any of that will be appropriate for me. My aunts are most encouraging and supportive, happy to fund such training, and, as I greatly appreciate their care, I do whatever they ask of me.’

      ‘They are indeed considerate and generous ladies. I shall be sorry to leave them and am not convinced Megan will agree to do that, even if I promise to take her back for regular visits. My young sister is a very independent little madam with no memory now of our mother. I’m a sort of surrogate mum to her, the only person she’s had to protect and care for her, particularly whenever she’s been upset or in difficulty.’

      ‘I reckon you’ve done a good job. You’re a lovely caring girl no matter what problems you and your sister have suffered during this dratted war. How are you feeling now, health-wise?’

      This not being at all a subject Joanne wished to discuss she did not respond and quickly moved on to speak of where her mother used to work. When she took him to the mill she discovered to her dismay that it had been bombed and burned in a fire. Moving on to search every other possible mill or factory, Joanne called in them all to ask if her mother worked there, explaining she was called Evelyn Talbert, known as Evie. The response from the various secretaries or managers was always a sad shake of the head, as if they were asked countless times where certain persons were, save for one mill where she was told her mother had once worked for them. Feeling a burst of joy, this excitement soon subsided when she was told Evie had now left, being sacked along with most other women. And nobody knew where she was working or living now.

      Having spent hours searching and getting nowhere, Joanne felt close to despair, all hopes fading within her. ‘And where is Danny, my dad, or even my cousin Cathie? We’ve got absolutely nowhere.’

      They went on to explore the odd hostel and canal boat, in case she’d moved to live in one of those. Trekking up and down more roads, streets and yards where old friends had once lived, Joanne found those too were either destroyed or empty of anyone she knew. By late afternoon she agreed it was time for them to return home to Blackpool. Nothing was at all as it used to be here in Manchester. After walking dejectedly back to Victoria Station, Joanne remained silent throughout the entire journey, feeling utterly exhausted but surprisingly comforted when she nodded off to sleep with her head on Bernie’s shoulder. Not for a moment did he object to that.

      Davie, a good friend of Evie and Donald, had safely returned from the war when demobilized from the East Lancashire Regiment, and readily helped her to carry all her belongings in his old Ford van. Not that she had any furniture, having lost it all when their first home had been bombed. He drove her along Liverpool Road and up Byrom Street to a crowd of back-to-back houses close to Wood Street and Deansgate, an area that had thankfully not been destroyed by explosive bombs. It was at least within reasonable distance of Victoria Station; now back in action after suffering a landmine fall on a platform early in the war. Would that be where her son would arrive, or the station on Liverpool Road or Piccadilly? She must make enquiries to find that out.

      ‘Here’s number six, chuck,’ Davie said, parking his Ford van then starting to lift her boxes and bags out as she unlocked the door. Carrying a load of things in, he glanced around with disdain. ‘I reckon you’ll have to tart this place up. At least it’s a bit bigger than the one room you’ve been occupying lately, chuck.’

      Looking around to examine it, not