by Maureen Lee
‘Must’ve cost a pretty packet,’ he said shrewdly.
‘Y’reckon?’
There’d been a tinge of irony in her words and Paddy, with his finely tuned senses, had understood immediately. The fireplace had cost nothing! It had probably been destined for one of those new houses the Corpy were building, and the gas stove had no doubt come the same way. And Francis had almost certainly got Corpy workmen in to do the work once he got the landlord’s approval, including the electric wiring, as ‘foreigners’, and just given them a few bob for their trouble. Well, nowt wrong with that, except if you were Jack Doyle’s daughter. Jack was as straight as a die. So Eileen disapproved, but it still didn’t account for her all-consuming unhappiness.
He was about to knock on the back door when it was opened. He knew it was Eileen before she spoke, recognising the sweet smell of her face powder and the lemon soap she used – and something else! He felt a pang of raw gut envy. Francis had made love to his wife during the night.
Eileen touched his face briefly as she always did and said, ‘Hallo, Paddy,’ in a tremulous voice, and he knew immediately there was something terribly wrong this morning and wondered, as always, what it could be. She gently took his arm and led him inside. ‘Mr Singerman’s here.’
‘Top of the morning, Jacob. You’re up early today,’ Paddy said jovially as he went into the living room.
‘Who can sleep, Paddy, with this hanging over us?’ the old man replied gloomily, little realising he’d been dozing for nearly an hour. ‘And the news is no better than it was last night.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Paddy settled himself in a chair. He could hear Tony trying to persuade Spot to beg for a biscuit, though neither the little dog’s appetite, nor his ability to beg, was what it used to be. Paddy resolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that one day soon Spot would die, because the loss of the dog he’d never seen, who’d been the best friend a man could ever have, was too horrendous to contemplate. Instead, he sat contentedly listening to the sounds in the kitchen. Any minute now a cup of tea would arrive. He liked being around Eileen Costello. If the truth were known, he was probably a bit in love with her, though that was something he’d keep to himself until the day he died.
The news at eight o’clock was still no better. Polish troops were bravely fighting back, but there was still no sign of Hitler withdrawing his army. There would be another bulletin in two hours’ time.
‘Hadn’t you better get your Francis up, Eileen?’ Paddy suggested. ‘I mean, if the worst comes to the worst, isn’t he supposed to report for duty, him being in the Territorials, like?’
‘I think so,’ Eileen said vaguely. ‘There’s plenty of time. He’ll get up when he’s ready.’ She was aware Mr Singerman was looking at her strangely and Paddy was frowning, ‘I’ll take a cup of tea up if he doesn’t stir soon,’ she added, which seemed to satisfy them both. She kept praying her husband would appear of his own accord so she wouldn’t have to go into that bedroom again with him in it.
She made more tea and several rounds of toast and marmalade, and just as they were finishing Dominic called for Tony to play. Eileen winced as the front door slammed and the house shook as the two departed.
‘You’re not having your Tony evacuated, then?’
‘Oh, no, Mr Singerman,’ she said quickly. ‘P’raps it’s selfish of us, but I couldn’t bear to let him go. And our Sheila’s staying – I mean, who’d take in a woman with six children, two of ’em only babies? – and what with me dad only just round the corner …’
‘A lot of children went on Friday,’ the old man sighed. ‘Pearl Street seemed uncommonly quiet yesterday. I never thought I’d miss the sound of the children playing outside, but I did.’
‘They’ll be back, Jacob, don’t you worry,’ Paddy grinned. ‘And you’ll be able to have a good old moan again.’
The children had gone in charabancs to safer areas, away from Bootle and the expected air-raids. Freda and Dicky Tutty had left for Southport, and neither had taken a scrap of luggage with them.
To Eileen’s relief, the slam of the front door appeared to have woken Francis. She heard the bed springs creak. He was getting up. Once he heard voices downstairs, he’d probably want some warm water to get washed in private.
She jumped to her feet. ‘There’s Francis now,’ she said brightly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just slip round to the Holy Rosary for the nine o’clock Mass and I’ll take our Tony with us. I’ll leave the front door open, case anybody else drops in to listen to the wireless. Y’can tell Francis there’s a cup of tea in the pot when he comes down.’
If he wanted warm water he’d just have to whistle for it.
The church was unusually crowded. Eileen saw a lot of people who didn’t normally attend Mass except at Christmas and Easter. There was a tension in the air and during prayers, instead of the usual coughs and the sound of people shuffling around trying to make themselves comfortable on the wooden kneelers, you could have heard a pin drop, as if the congregation were praying especially hard. Father Jordan’s sermon was a plaintive call for common sense and reason.
‘S’not much good asking us to be reasonable,’ Eileen heard someone say when they were outside. ‘No-one’s asked us if we want a war or not. Fact, no-one ever asks us anything. We just get told what to do and we bloody well go and do it, even if it means going out and getting bloody killed!’
She smiled to herself. It sounded just like her dad.
Tony, chattering nineteen to the dozen, skipped along beside her as they walked home along Marsh Lane, which was crowded with people in their best clothes going to and from their various churches or out buying a newspaper. Everyone looked very grave, and one or two self-consciously carried their gas masks in cases over their shoulders. There was none of the normal lighthearted Sunday atmosphere, despite the fact it was such a lovely, sunny day; balmy and exceptionally warm for September. Apart from the newsagent’s, the shops were closed and shuttered.
‘Why doesn’t grandad ever go to Mass, Mam?’
‘Because he’s an atheist, luv. You ask me that question nearly every Sunday.’
‘Is me Uncle Sean an atheist, too?’
‘I don’t think Sean’s ever given it much thought. He was only two when your grandma died, so he didn’t have her example, not like your Auntie Sheila and me. Your grandad never cared if Sean went to Mass or not.’
‘Me dad doesn’t always go to Mass, either.’ He frowned and his glasses slipped halfway down his little snub nose. ‘Does that mean he’ll go to hell if he dies in the war?’
Eileen’s heart missed a beat. It was a while before she answered. ‘Your dad only misses the times he doesn’t feel so well on Sunday mornings. Then he goes to Benediction in the evening instead. And of course your dad won’t be killed in the war, don’t be silly.’
She bought the News of the World and a bar of Fry’s chocolate cream for Tony. ‘Eat that up quick, now, before we get home, otherwise your dad’ll have a fit. You know he doesn’t like you eating chocolate.’
‘Why not, Mam?’
‘I dunno, luv. You’d better ask him that.’
The chocolate disappeared as if by magic. Eileen stopped and wiped his sticky hands and mouth with her hankie. His little face contorted grotesquely as she rubbed furiously away and she felt a sudden ache of love. ‘Oh, you’re a little pet, Tony Costello,’ she said, spontaneously kissing his forehead.
‘Mam!’ He looked around to see if anyone was watching. Being kissed by your mam in a public street could take some living down. Then he glanced at her keenly. He’d been meaning to ask her something ever since he woke up and was waiting for the right moment. Perhaps this was it. ‘Why were you crying last night, Mam?’
‘Was I crying, luv? I don’t remember.’
She was lying, he could tell. He couldn’t bear his mam being unhappy. He felt an unpleasant knot of something peculiar in his tummy.
‘I must’ve had a bad dream,’ she sa
id.
When Eileen got home, her dad had arrived along with her brother Sean, and Agnes Donovan was in the back kitchen making a cup of tea. Paddy O’Hara and Mr Singerman were still there.
‘You don’t mind, do you, Eileen?’ Aggie’s little black eyes were darting around the kitchen, searching every corner. If there was something amiss, a dirty sink or a grubby teatowel, it would be all around the street by tomorrow. ‘But I popped in to see what the latest news was and your dad was here, parched for a cuppa. Oh, it’s lovely using this stove of yours, boils the kettle a treat it does.’
‘You missed the ten o’clock bulletin,’ her dad said sharply. He resented the fact his daughters continued to go to church, despite his stern lectures on the evils of Catholicism and religion being the opium of the people.
‘What did it say?’
‘Neville Chamberlain is speaking to the nation at quarter past eleven,’ he replied cuttingly. His feelings for the Prime Minister bordered on loathing.
‘Oh, Lord!’ That sounded ominous. ‘Where’s Francis?’
Paddy O’Hara said, ‘He’s gone round to Park Street, Eileen, to find out what time he’s expected to report in, like. Rodney Smith came while you were gone and took him in the car.’
The Territorial Army Headquarters were in Park Street.
‘He looked dead smart in his uniform,’ Jack Doyle said proudly, then his craggy features twisted sardonically. ‘He’s officer material is Francis, but there’s no way he’ll be promoted beyond sergeant. He don’t talk enough like a toff.’
‘Oh, come off it, Dad,’ Eileen said impatiently. ‘You’re the last person who’d want an officer for a son-in-law,’ and he had the grace to smile, slightly shamefaced.
‘I’m going to join the Fleet Air Arm,’ Sean said excitedly. He was a lovely dark gypsy of a boy, a throw-back to some wild Gaelic strain in the family.
Eileen shook his bare brown arm irritably. ‘Shurrup, you! You’re only sixteen. The war’ll be well finished by the time you’re old enough to fight. Everyone sez it’ll be over by Christmas.’ It was no good adding, ‘That’s if there is a war,’ because it looked beyond doubt by now.
Mr Singerman opened his mouth to say something, but must have thought better of it. He stayed silent.
The Prime Minister’s voice was strained and weary. He was seventy, and the events of the past weeks and months would have taxed the nerves of a man half his age.
‘I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at Number Ten Downing Street …’
The Costellos’ house was crowded. Few families in Pearl Street could afford a wireless. Neighbours were packed in the hall and on the stairs. Eileen sat on a hard chair which was jammed between Mr Singerman and the table. Francis was back. Despite the ill-fitting, clumsily-made clothes, he still managed to look debonair and even slightly rakish as he stood framed in the back kitchen doorway. Rodney Smith was beside him, his blond wavy hair stiff with Brylcreem.
… unless the British Government heard by eleven o’clock that Germany were prepared to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany …
There was a swift drawing in of breath from everybody there. One or two of the women moaned softly and several people made the sign of the cross. Somebody giggled nervously. Eileen noticed Jacob Singerman’s gnarled yellow hands tighten so hard that the knuckles showed white.
… May God bless you all. May he defend the right, for it is evil things that we shall be fighting against – brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution; and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.
The Prime Minister’s voice faded away and was followed by the National Anthem. Nobody moved, maintaining a respectful silence – though Jack Doyle, who had no truck with nationalism wherever it came from, irritably lit a cigarette.
Calum Reilly, Sheila’s husband, was the first to speak when the music finished. ‘Well,’ he said ruefully, ‘that’s that, then. I’d better go and tell the missus.’ His normally warm good humoured face was troubled. A Merchant Seaman’s job was already hazardous enough without the now predictable threat of attack from German U-boats and planes.
‘Tell our Sheila I’ll pop over to see her later on,’ Eileen told him. Her sister would be sick with worry. Cal was going back to sea in the morning.
People began to disperse, looked dazed. Their country was in a state of war and it hadn’t quite sunk in yet.
‘Tara, Eileen. Tara Francis,’ they shouted.
Eileen felt thankful that her dad and Sean were tactless enough to remain. She didn’t want to see Francis off on her own. To her astonishment, he picked up his bulging kitbag and swung it over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be off now.’
‘Already? I thought you weren’t due to report in till half past twelve?’
‘It’s not so far off that now. Rodney and I’ll stop off on the way for a bevy. Fancy one, Jack?’
‘D’you want us to come with you?’ Eileen felt bound to ask, feeling awkward and inadequate. Her husband was going off to fight in a war and it had all happened so suddenly that it had taken her unawares.
‘No, luv, it’s all right.’ He kissed her cheek and she stiffened. ‘They won’t be sending us far, not yet.’
They went to the door. ‘Don’t forget to say goodbye to Tony. He’s out playing with Dominic in the street,’ she called.
There was quite a crowd outside, reluctant to return home since hearing the fateful news. One or two were glancing up at the skies, as if already expecting to see enemy planes loaded with bombs to drop on Bootle. Tony and Dominic, both wearing their gas masks, were playing at being aeroplanes, arms outstretched as they swooped on each other. When everyone saw Francis Costello emerge in his uniform, they clustered around, shaking his hand and wishing him well. Annie Poulson, who had her arms around a sobbing Rosie Gregson, looked more angry than upset. Her lads were in Aldershot and she was probably wondering when she’d see them again. Sheila emerged clutching the new baby, Mary, and came across to say goodbye to Francis.
Francis reached for his wife with his free arm and, in a dramatic gesture, swung her towards him. He kissed her long and hard on the lips and everybody cheered.
‘Tara, luv,’ he said, releasing her.
Suddenly, Eileen felt as if it was all too much. She burst into tears.
‘Don’t worry, Sis, he’ll be back.’ Sean put his arm around her shoulder.
‘Poor Eileen,’ she heard someone say. ‘How will she manage without him?’
Eileen fled back into the house. She heard someone follow and ran upstairs, pausing at the darkened bedroom door where the blackout was still in place.
‘Eileen!’
It was Annie.
‘I’m upstairs.’
‘I’ve got a drop of whisky in the house, luv. Come and have a sup? It’ll calm you down, like.’
‘In a minute.’ She heard Annie’s footsteps on the stairs. At the top, Annie turned and the two women faced each other across the landing.
‘We’re all upset this mornin’,’ Annie said. ‘Francis, he’ll be all right, you’ll see. He’ll come back safe and sound.’
‘I don’t want him back!’ She had to tell someone. She couldn’t stand the thought of everyone feeling sorry for her when the last thing she wanted was pity because Francis had gone away.
‘What?’ Annie frowned, struggling to understand.
‘I hate him,’ Eileen said flatly. ‘I’m glad he’s gone. I hope he gets killed and never comes back.’ She wanted to add, ‘In other words, I’m glad there’s going to be a war,’ but how could you say that to a widow whose two sons, her only children, were going to fight in it? ‘Come here a minute,’ she said instead.
She went into the bedroom and jerked the blanket off the window. Drawing pins scattered over the linoleum-covered floor.
Annie gasped at the sight
that met her. The bed was in a state of total disarray. There were sheets and blankets everywhere, spilling onto the floor, and the striped palliasse was mainly bare. The room stank of the green vomit which was splattered on the sheets and both pillows and in a pool on the floor. A man’s suit, shirt and underclothes had been thrown carelessly in a corner.
Annie frowned again, but didn’t speak, as if she was stuck for words.
‘It happens nearly every Saturday night,’ Eileen explained bitterly. ‘He goes off with Rodney Smith to some club or other in town. When he comes home he can scarcely stand, he’s so bloody drunk, and he’s always in a terrible wild temper, then …’ She paused, unable to continue. How could she tell her friend the disgusting things Francis did when he came to bed?
Annie thought she understood. She glanced shrewdly at Eileen’s strained face. ‘Does he get a bit rough with you, luv?’
‘You could say that,’ Eileen replied briefly. Once she’d tried to hide in the parlour when she heard Rodney Smith’s car stop at the end of the street, but Francis had searched for her and …
‘I would never have believed it,’ Annie breathed. ‘A fine man like Francis Costello!’
‘I’m sick to death of hearing people say that,’ Eileen said exasperatedly. ‘Everyone thinks the sun shines out his arse, me dad in particular. I even did meself for a while, but we hadn’t been married long before he showed his true colours.’
Annie took hold of her arm. ‘Come on, luv, let’s get out of here. I’ll help you clear it up later. How about that whisky?’
‘I’d sooner not go outside, Annie, not with everyone still there and feeling sorry for me. Anyroad, there’s already a bottle of Johnnie Walker in the parlour. I’d prefer a cup of tea, instead. I’ll close the front door on the way down, else I’ll have the world and his wife back in again.’
‘He began coming round to our house when I was about fifteen to ask me dad help him get on Bootle Corporation, like,’ said Eileen. ‘He had such a lovely way with him, a real Irish charmer, that me dad was really taken with him. We all were. He kept on coming, even after he’d won the seat, and after a while I got the feeling he was interested in me. I suppose I felt flattered – he was older than I was, ten years older, and the women were all wild about him.’