Lights Out Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  He took a deep breath. As a young man, he’d always had too much imagination. Lately, it had been getting out of hand. For a moment there, he thought he’d died and gone to hell!

  Freda Tutty lay in the sweet-smelling bed staring up with fascination at her outstretched hands with their bright red fingernails. Then she wriggled her feet out of the bedclothes and regarded her matching toes. She remembered her hair and sat up, craning her head until she could see her reflection in the mirror on top of the little dressing table on the wall opposite. It had hurt, having it washed; the pretty lady – Vivien, as they’d been told to call her – had scrubbed and scrubbed really hard with her fingertips, but the result had been worth it. Freda’s hair had dried into bouncing shoulder-length brown curls.

  ‘It’s more chestnut than brown,’ Vivien said admiringly, ‘and lovely and thick.’

  Vivien had loaned her a nightdress, white cotton with a pattern of little sprigs of mauve forget-me-nots and a drawstring neck threaded with mauve ribbon. The nightdress was a bit too long, but this morning they were going shopping, ostensibly to buy a train set for Dicky and a doll for herself, but also to buy clothes. Freda didn’t want a doll, but she was looking forward to the clothes. Last night, when they’d gone in search of a nightdress, Vivien had let her look through the wardrobe at all her pretty frocks. She even let Freda try a couple on.

  ‘Isn’t this just too exciting for words?’ Vivien had trilled. ‘It’s like having a little sister,’ which Freda thought a strange thing to say, because Vivien was old enough to be her mam.

  Suddenly, the bedroom door was pushed open with such force that it banged against the wall and swung back, almost striking the woman who entered and stood glaring down at Freda. She wore a green overall and was very tall and stout with fleshy, sallow features sprinkled with several hairy warts. Her tight grey curls were covered with a thick hairnet. This, assumed Freda, must be the daily, Mrs Critchley.

  ‘I suppose you’ve wet the bed again,’ she said in a grating voice.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Freda said, quickly recovering her composure and recognising an enemy straight away.

  The woman came over, grabbed Freda’s wrist and squeezed it hard. ‘I didn’t appreciate coming in this morning and finding half a dozen sheets waiting to be washed.’

  Not at all intimidated, Freda countered, ‘It’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it? Now, gerroff me, or I’ll tell Vivien.’

  The woman released her grip and took a surprised step backwards. ‘So, it’s “Vivien”, is it?’ she hissed. ‘Well, you may have fooled Mrs W, but you haven’t fooled me, my girl.’

  ‘I wouldn’t waste me time, you’re not worth it. Sod off.’

  Looking shaken, the woman left with a face like thunder. Freda felt the bed to see if it was wet, but the bottom sheet was dry. It was a pity about Mrs Critchley, but she was used to people talking to her as if she were a piece of dirt. And she was talking shit, anyway, because Freda wasn’t fooling anyone. Vivien was the first person to treat her like a human being and she liked her more than she’d liked anyone in her life before, even more than her mam, in a sort of way. She knew, instinctively, whose side Vivien would be on if Mrs Critchley made a fuss. Vivien would be on the side of her little sister.

  ‘I don’t want you to go, Cal. I never want you to go, but this time …’ Sheila Reilly was trying very hard not to cry. It always upset Cal, seeing her in tears when he was about to leave, but it was hard to remain dry-eyed when she was in such utter despair. He might be killed, she might never see him again, and the thought of life without Cal was so achingly unbearable that she was convinced she would die if anything happened to him.

  ‘I know, luv, I know.’ Cal stroked her naked body and she felt him harden. They were in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. His ship, the Midnight Star was sailing that night for Freemantle with a cargo of carpets and he had to be on board by midday. In a few hours he would leave. They had little time left to themselves, perhaps only minutes. Although Mary, the baby, was fast asleep in her cot in the corner, Sheila could hear the boys talking to each other in the next room. Any minute now, they’d come barging in and leap on the bed demanding a last play with their dad, or Mary would wake up wanting her feed. Outside, there came the sharp clip-clop of hooves and the creak of wheels on the cobbled street as Nelson, the coal horse, set off on the first deliveries of the day. It must be getting late.

  ‘Do it, Cal. Please do it,’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, girl! D’you think I don’t want to?’ he replied hoarsely. It was all he thought about when he was at sea, making love to his Sheila.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she coaxed. He hadn’t done it properly since he came home last Thursday.

  ‘No! It’s only just over a week since you had the baby.’

  ‘That’s never stopped you before.’

  ‘Oh, Sheil!’ He began to kiss her passionately and she touched him till he came. She knew darned well why he wouldn’t make love, because he was worried she would have another baby. It had never mattered before, but it mattered now, because this time there was a far greater risk that he mightn’t come back.

  ‘Why don’t you give up the Merchant Navy, Cal? Do something else?’ She sat up and began to pull on her nightie. She knew it was a stupid question and wondered why she’d bothered asking it, but it seemed even more stupid to sail across dangerous waters with a hold full of carpets when there was a war on.

  ‘I’ve been at sea since I was thirteen, Sheil,’ he replied patiently. ‘There’s nowt else I’m fit for. And don’t forget, if I weren’t in the Navy, I’d be getting me call-up papers anyroad.’

  She had forgotten. Whichever way you looked at it, she was going to lose him somehow. She couldn’t win. At least in the Navy he had some rank after his name. Cal was a Third Officer, which wasn’t nearly as grand as it sounded, but in the Army he’d be starting at the bottom as a private.

  Sheila sighed as she slipped out of bed, drew the curtains back and picked up the baby. Best get her feed over with now. There were still Cal’s shirts to iron. She opened her nightie and Mary began to suck eagerly at her breast. Cal got up and Sheila watched as he began to get dressed, feeling herself grow dizzy with love at the sight of his thick muscled arms, his brown shoulders. She resisted the urge to put Mary back in her cot and demand he make love to her, properly, straight away.

  Anyroad, just then, the bedroom door opened and the children poured in, all five of them, even Ryan at a rapid crawl. Dominic or Niall must have picked him up out of his cot. Ryan, no longer the baby, had been relegated to the boys’ room since Mary arrived.

  Calum laughed and lifted up his youngest son until the tiny boy almost touched the ceiling and squealed in a mixture of terror and delight.

  ‘Me too, Dad, me too,’ the others shouted, jumping up and down.

  ‘Shurrup, youse lot. You’ll wake up the whole street,’ Sheila yelled. She regarded her family with a mixture of love and fear, then glanced hopefully at the big portrait of the Sacred Heart over the fireplace. ‘Please, dear Jesus,’ she prayed silently, ‘look after Cal for me and keep me children safe from bombs and gas and all the terrible things that can happen in a war.’

  Across the road, Eileen Costello was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette. She rarely smoked, but last night had found a full packet of Capstan in a drawer and smoked several whilst she listened to the wireless with Mr Singerman and Paddy O’Hara. A writer called J. B. Priestley had read the first part of his book, Let the People Sing. She couldn’t wait for next Sunday to hear the second part. It somehow seemed appropriate that morning, waking up after the first refreshing night’s sleep in years, to nip downstairs, make a cup of tea and bring it back to bed along with the packet of ciggies and yesterday’s special edition of the Liverpool Echo. The paper, never normally published on a Sunday, contained the news that all theatres and cinemas had been closed and sporting fixtures cancelled. Her dad nearly had a fit when he learned there�
�d be no football match on Saturday. Everton were due to play Manchester United and he was really looking forward to it, along with nearly every other man in Liverpool. Hitler’s ears must have really burnt last night, the curses that were heaped upon his head.

  Eileen took a long puff of her cigarette, blew the smoke slowly out and watched it disperse lazily upwards in wavy layers. It didn’t seem right, being so happy. On the other hand, there was a feeling of relief that the uncertainty, the awful waiting, was over and the country knew where it stood. But Eileen knew that wasn’t the real reason for her happiness. Francis had gone. She was alone in the bed.

  She giggled, feeling slightly hysterical, and wondered if she was the only woman in the country who was glad to see the back of her husband. Now he’d gone, she’d get herself a job. He’d refused to let her work before, something she’d wanted to do since Tony started school last Easter. ‘I’m not having folks think I don’t earn enough to keep me family on me own,’ he said. But it wasn’t the money Eileen was thinking of – one good thing about Francis, in fact the only good thing, was he never kept her short of cash. He liked her and the house to look nice when people came to see him on Corporation business. He’d hand over a few quid, unasked, for her to buy a new frock or a pair of shoes, though he insisted on coming with her and picking out what he liked, rather than let her choose for herself. And she was even better off now than when Francis was home. The Mersey Docks & Harbour Board would continue to pay his wages, and she got an allowance from the Army. But Eileen wanted to work for different reasons, reasons she couldn’t quite explain, even to herself; she just felt there should be more to a woman’s life than cooking and cleaning. Annie felt the same. Even when her boys started work and there was no more need to go out scrubbing and cleaning, she’d got herself a part-time job in Woolworths and it wasn’t just for the money. Now that Terry and Joe were away, Annie was considering looking for a full-time job.

  The door opened and Tony came in, his gun tucked in the waist of his pyjamas and his gas mask over his shoulder.

  Eileen smiled. ‘You’re well prepared. God help Hitler if he invades Number Sixteen Pearl Street.’

  ‘I’ll kill him if he does,’ Tony said stoutly.

  ‘I know you will, son. Come on, get in bed for a minute while I finish this ciggie.’

  His face lit up as he climbed in beside her. ‘Me dad would have a fit if he knew.’

  ‘Well, what the eye don’t see …’ She put an arm around his shoulders. ‘What shall we do today?’

  He looked up at her, puzzled. ‘What d’you mean, Mam?’

  ‘Well, you’ll be back at school next week. Let’s do something exciting, like go into town.’

  ‘Honest, Mam? Honest?’ She could feel his body tense with excitement. ‘Can we go on the tram?’

  Eileen groaned. ‘It’s much quicker on the train, luv.’

  ‘I know, but the tram’s more … more …’ He searched for the right word.

  ‘More noisy, uncomfortable and takes ten times longer?’ she suggested.

  ‘More interesting.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ she said with pretend impatience. ‘Now, let’s see. After breakfast, I’ll go over to Auntie Sheila’s and say tara to Cal and then nip round to the Co-op and buy some blackout material. Mr Singerman’s promised to run me curtains up on his machine. When all that’s done, we’ll catch the tram into town. If it weren’t for bloody Hitler, we could’ve gone to the pictures. Shirley Temple was on at the Trocadero in The Little Princess. Instead, we’ll go to Pets Corner in Lewis’s – after we’ve had our dinner in Lyons.’

  ‘Oh, Mam!’ he sighed blissfully. ‘We mustn’t forget our gas masks.’

  ‘We won’t,’ she said comfortably. ‘What frock shall I wear? The blue one or the green?’

  ‘I like the blue one best.’

  ‘The blue one it is.’ She stubbed the cigarette out in the saucer. ‘Come on, then, Tony Costello! Get your skates on. We’ve got a lot to do today.’

  The Co-op appeared to have had a run on blackout material. There was none left in stock. Eileen stood in the middle of the shop, wondering where to try next. She preferred using the Co-op whenever she could. Twenty yards of material at one and eleven a yard meant quite a lot of divi being added to her account. She noticed Miss Brazier, alone and aloof in her cage, and smiled in her direction. The woman smiled stiffly back. Poor ould sod, you could tell it was only shyness that prevented her from being friendly.

  Eileen crossed over. It wouldn’t do any harm to exchange a few words. ‘They’ve run out of blackout. I suppose I’ll have to try somewhere else.’

  Miss Brazier nodded without speaking. Eileen turned to walk away, when she heard a noise. Miss Brazier was tapping on the glass with a coin. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, Mrs Costello, because they’ve only got a small amount and they didn’t want a riot, but if you hang on another ten or fifteen minutes, they’ll be bringing out another couple of bolts of material that came in this morning.’

  ‘Thanks very much. I’ll just go and look at the wool. I want to knit our Tony a jumper.’

  ‘I’d advise you not buy the crepe. It’s got no give, the rib stretches after a single wearing.’

  ‘Thanks again.’ Close up, Eileen was surprised to notice that behind the ugly horn-rimmed glasses Miss Brazier’s eyes were quite pretty; a lovely blue, almost violet, with long dark lashes. If only she would do something with her hair and not wear those awful clothes which looked as if they’d belonged to her mother. Emboldened by such an unexpected display of friendliness from a person who normally kept herself very much to herself, she said, ‘Y’know, you’re always welcome to come around our house for a cup of tea on your day off, like, Miss Brazier?’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ The tone was cold. Miss Brazier seemed to shrink into herself. Eileen had gone too far.

  ‘And thank you – for telling me about the blackout and the wool,’ Eileen said cheerfully. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Miss Brazier. Tara.’

  Ten minutes later Eileen paid for her material. The money whizzed across the shop in the little metal cannister. She waited for her change, watching Miss Brazier remove the two pound notes, tear off the top half of the bill, and put a handful of coppers back. The woman didn’t look up once. Eileen waved as she left, but Miss Brazier didn’t wave back.

  When Eileen got back to Pearl Street, some sort of commotion was going on. Several women were standing outside and one or two were crying.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked of nobody in particular.

  ‘Eh, Eileen!’ Agnes Donovan darted across and seized her arm, anxious to be the first to convey what was obviously bad news. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened. The Athenia’s been sunk.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ gasped Eileen, horrified. ‘What about Mary and Joey and the kids?’

  ‘No-one knows,’ Aggie said ghoulishly. ‘It was on the Harrisons’ wireless. Over a hundred people were drowned. I expect it was one of them torpedoes.’

  ‘Has anyone told our Sheila?’

  ‘I told her meself a while back.’

  ‘Cal only went back to sea this morning,’ Eileen snapped. ‘I wish you’d kept your big mouth shut for once, Aggie Donovan.’ The woman must have been in her element, running round the street, knocking on doors, telling everyone.

  ‘She had to know sometime,’ Aggie replied in an aggrieved voice.

  ‘Well, you should’ve left it to me or me dad to tell her.’ Eileen turned on her heel towards her sister’s house. Somehow, she’d never thought that war would touch them so quickly and so personally. She recalled the day of the party, what a celebration that had been. Someone had said, ‘You’re getting out just in time, Joey.’ But the Flahertys hadn’t got out quick enough. Still, maybe they were all safe and sound, but even so, it must have been a terrible experience and would put a blight on the new life they were so looking forward to.

  Sheila’s front door was open as usual, and Ryan and Caitli
n were playing in the hall. As Eileen struggled over the gate, she was surprised to hear the sound of laughter coming from the parlour and recognised Annie’s voice.

  Eileen paused in the parlour doorway, blinking. ‘What the hell are they?’

  Two monstrous contraptions, each made out of a combination of rubber and canvas with a little grille at one end and connected to an attachment similar to a set of bellows, stood on the polished table.

  ‘Baby gas masks! The District Nurse just brought them.’ Sheila could scarcely speak for laughing.

  ‘Gerraway! How do they work?’ Eileen approached cautiously. ‘They don’t half look complicated.’

  ‘They are. In case of an attack, I’ve to put Mary in one and Ryan in the other, like, then pump like bloody hell so they don’t suffocate.’ Tears were running down Sheila’s red cheeks. ‘Trouble is, I can only manage one at a time.’

  ‘Not only that, Eileen, but she’ll be wearing a gas mask herself.’ Annie was doubled up in mirth. ‘Never mind, Shiel, I’ll shoot over if there’s a gas attack and pump one for you.’

  ‘That’s if you’re not already dead yourself,’ gasped Sheila.

  For some reason, this made them howl. ‘It doesn’t seem the least bit funny to me,’ said Eileen, mystified.

  Annie rubbed her eyes. ‘I suppose, luv, it’s just a case of if you don’t laugh, you’ll only cry.’

  Then Eileen understood. Cal had gone, Annie’s boys were gone, the Athenia had been sunk, and this was how her friend and her sister were coping with their grief, hiding it behind a display of unnatural high spirits over something which wasn’t funny at all. In fact, when you thought about it, baby gas masks were anything but a laughing matter

  It was probably the finest kitchen in the finest road in Calderstones, the most exclusive area of Liverpool. Twenty-five feet square, the floors were tiled with cream stone, each square engraved with a brown fleur de lys. The freshly washed floor, the twin cream enamel sinks, the double draining board, the silver taps, all sparkled in the sunshine which came streaming through the long narrow lattice window and the lace curtain lifted gently in the soft afternoon breeze. A large cream refrigerator hummed noisily, a comforting, welcome sound. In pride of place stood the Aga cooker. Also cream, it served the central heating system, and a few coals glowed behind the thick glass door. Over the years, several people had come especially to see the Aga, curious to know how it worked before they bought one for themselves, and Jessica Fleming would explain its marvels before finishing off, ‘Of course, it was frightfully expensive.’ People would leave, impressed, not just with the Aga, but with Jessica herself. At forty-three, she was a magnificent woman with a milky, almost dazzling complexion, unusual dark green eyes, and a startling head of red wavy hair. The hair was slightly more red than it had been in her youth, as nowadays Jessica used henna to disguise unwelcome streaks of grey.