Lights Out Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  ‘Whoever is the last to finish gets a little prize!’ So the two of them sat there eating sedately, dragging the meal out.

  ‘There!’ Vivien would sing. ‘Doesn’t food taste so much nicer when it’s eaten slowly?’ Now, there was no need to offer a prize. Vivien had taught them how to use a knife and fork properly and they ate like any other well-mannered children, perhaps more so. It was a pity Mrs Critchley hadn’t taken to them, but as long as she kept her opinions to herself, it didn’t matter.

  In the office, several colleagues had complained about the children who had been billetted on them. ‘Bloody little savages. The house is like a jungle.’

  ‘My two are fine,’ Clive would declare smugly.

  ‘You’re lucky. We can’t wait to see the back of ours.’

  The boy, Dicky, remained a bit sullen, obviously missing his mother, but seemed happy enough to go along with his sister or play with his train set, but it was Freda who had altered out of all recognition, as if it had only needed a good wash and a few pretty clothes to reveal the real child underneath. She had a quick, intelligent brain and Vivien was teaching her to read. The two would sit crushed together in an armchair looking at fashion magazines and discussing clothes and make-up as if they were the same age and had known each other forever. Of course, Freda was far too old for her years and Vivien seemed to be getting younger by the day. Clive supposed they sort of met in the middle.

  But Clive was worried. Several evacuees had already returned home. After all, they’d come to get away from air raids and there hadn’t been a single one so far in the entire country. In fact, a curious calm seemed to have descended and the Americans had begun to refer to the war as ‘phoney’ – though the Americans hadn’t been on the Athenia, or the Courageous, or all the other ships sunk by the Germans, Clive thought disdainfully. The Jerries even had the gall to bomb the Royal Oak at anchor in Scapa Flow, the British Naval Base up in the Orkneys. But apart from the bloody activity on the high seas, nothing had happened. According to someone from the office whose brother was in the Royal Warwickshires, the British Expeditionary Force was having a fine old time in France, going to nightclubs and being wined and dined by the French, at least the officers were. All that the Royal Air Force had been allowed to drop on Germany was leaflets telling them to give up. There’d been a joke going around the office the other day. Some young pilot had returned earlier than expected from his mission dropping leaflets and explained he tipped them out still wrapped in parcels. ‘Good God, man,’ his CO said anxiously, ‘you might have killed someone!’ The war itself seemed a bit of a joke so far and when a communication arrived last week telling Clive to collect their Identity Cards, it had come as a little shock as, along with most other people, he’d almost forgotten they were in a state of conflict. Of course, the blackout was a bit of a bind, but since the children had arrived, he and Vivien didn’t go out much of a night, so it didn’t inconvenience them as much as it did some.

  The last thing he wanted was for the war to escalate, but nor did he want his evacuees removed. Vivien had never looked or been so well. She was full of energy, and it was an indication of her amazing achievement that he actually wished to keep the two filthy little urchins who’d come into their lives on the first day of September. Not for his own sake, he didn’t give a damn if he never saw either of them again, but for Vivien’s, and not so much the boy, either, but the girl. Vivien loved her and he had no doubt that the girl genuinely loved her back. Sometimes he felt almost jealous, slightly shut out, when the two of them sat giggling together, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was his Vivien was happy.

  Francis Costello came home on leave, unannounced, taking Eileen completely by surprise. To everyone’s amusement, The Royal Tank Regiment had only gone as far as Crosby, no more than a few miles down the road, and most of the men had been sent home when it was discovered there were no sleeping facilities, but to Eileen’s heartfelt relief, Francis had been despatched to Kettering on a typing course.

  Somehow, Eileen guessed who it was immediately the key sounded in the front door and her heart sank. She went into the hall.

  ‘Hallo, luv.’ He kissed her on the cheek. He looked bronzed and fit in his uniform. When he removed his hat, she saw his hair had been cut very short, though you could still see the little crinkly waves.

  ‘Hallo, Francis.’ Having greeted him, she could think of little else to say and was relieved when another khaki-clad form came into the hall behind him. It was a young lad, no more than eighteen, with a bright open face and girlish flushed skin.

  ‘This is Pete English.’ Francis introduced them. ‘He’s got no home to go to, so I thought I’d bring him back with me.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Costello?’ Pete said in a cracked voice that sounded as if it hadn’t yet broken. He had a broad Lancashire accent.

  Before Eileen could open her mouth to say Pete was more than welcome, Francis said for her, ‘Of course she don’t mind. Y’can sleep in the parlour and there’s plenty of food – I hope.’ There was a slight threat in the last two words, as if he’d like to find fault with her the minute he came in.

  ‘I’ll have to pop out later and buy a bit more stewing steak for the scouse,’ Eileen said stiffly. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, was I? I’ll go and make a cup of tea.’

  As she put the kettle on, she noticed her hands were shaking. Ever since Francis left, she’d been going over and over in her mind what to do when he came back. She’d sworn to herself she’d never sleep with him again. There was no way she’d put up with that indignity one more time. She’d discussed it with Annie, who didn’t know the full facts, of course, and Annie had said she and Tony could always sleep in her house if she wanted. But that seemed a coward’s way out, thought Eileen. She should stand up to Francis and tell him of her decision to his face.

  ‘How’s our Tony?’ Francis shouted from the living room.

  ‘He’s fine,’ she shouted back. ‘He doesn’t come home at dinner time no more, they give them a nice meal at school.’

  ‘I bet he’s missing his dad,’ Francis called, then, in a quieter voice to Pete English: ‘He’s a nice little lad, you’ll meet him later.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she lied. Tony may well think he was missing his dad, but he’d come out of himself lately and been far more lively and animated, a different boy altogether, as if freed from an awful weight of oppression. Eileen understood the feeling exactly.

  ‘It was terrible about Mary Flaherty,’ Francis shouted. ‘Rodney Smith wrote and told me about it.’ There was a hint of accusation in his voice and Eileen felt a mixture of guilt and resentment. She’d only written to him once, a stiff polite little letter, not at all the sort of letter any normal wife would send to a husband who was away at war. But then, she told herself, Francis wasn’t a normal husband.

  She went to the doorway. He was lounging in his chair as if he’d never been away, and Pete English was sitting awkwardly at the table.

  ‘They said a special Mass for Mary in the Holy Rosary last Sunday,’ she said. ‘But y’should see the people who’ve moved into their house, Francis. They’re terrible posh. The man’s all right, he speaks to you ever so friendly and he’s got no side at all, but the woman acts like she’s queen o’the midden. Y’get a nod if you’re lucky, but she can scarcely bear to look at you in case she catches something.’ She spread the next-to-best blue damask cloth on the table, kept especially for visitors.

  ‘How’s your dad keeping?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ she said, glad of the mundane conversation. ‘He’s begun conducting the war from Garnet Street. I’m not sure who he likes less, Chamberlain for doing nowt, or Hitler. You’ll never believe this, Francis, but he’s suddenly taken up with Winston Churchill. Reckons he should be Prime Minister.’

  ‘What?’ Francis was astounded. ‘I thought he hated Churchill?’

  ‘Oh, he does, in fact, he hates most politicians, even some of the Labour ones, but he hates fas
cism more. He reckons Churchill would make a far better war leader than Chamberlain.’

  She returned to the kitchen; the kettle had started to boil. Francis shouted, ‘I still think it’ll be over by Christmas. It’s all phoney, like they say in the papers. By this time next year, we’ll have forgotten there’s ever been a war.’

  ‘I hope so, for everyone’s sake,’ she replied, though she wondered if it was so phoney, then why had Mary died, and why was poor Annie going out of her mind with worry and her sister Sheila too terrified to listen to the wireless or read a newspaper in case she learnt another ship had been sunk? Eileen listened eagerly to the latest bulletins on the wireless whenever she could, and read the Daily Herald from cover to cover every day. She felt convinced Hitler was playing a waiting game. Any minute now, he’d pounce somewhere else and another country would be swallowed up by the mighty German army. But it was wise not to say anything to Francis. As far as he and a lot of other men were concerned, women weren’t supposed to have an opinion on the war.

  ‘Come on, Pete,’ she said as she carried in the teapot. ‘You’re allowed to speak, y’know. You won’t get put in the guardhouse, or whatever it’s called, just for saying a few words. How much sugar d’you take?’

  The boy smiled weakly, ‘One spoonful,’ he whispered.

  ‘How long are you home for, Francis?’ Eileen asked casually, praying he only had a twenty-four-hour pass. He might even have to go back that day.

  ‘Till Thursday,’ he replied.

  Three days, two nights! Her hands began to shake again as she poured the tea. ‘And are you going back to Kettering?’

  To her relief, he nodded. She’d been worried he was only returning to Crosby.

  ‘You haven’t noticed something,’ he said boastfully.

  ‘What’s that?’ She looked at him, but couldn’t see any difference. Except for his hair, he looked exactly the same as the day he left.

  ‘He’s got a stripe,’ Pete English said in his strange squeaky voice. ‘He’s a Lance Corporal.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ She tried to sound pleased. ‘Actually, Francis, I’ve got a bit of news meself. I’m starting work in November.’ It was best to tell him now while someone else was there; he wasn’t likely to get so mad.

  She regarded him nervously, biting her lip. He hated her taking decisions, doing anything of her own accord, and he’d refused to let her work before. He was staring at the cup in his hands, frowning, and she could tell he was angry. There was a dark look in the brown eyes that seemed to smile so warmly at everyone outside the house, but never on her, and never on Tony.

  ‘What sort of job?’ There was menace in his voice. If Pete English hadn’t been there, she knew he would have done something to her, something painful.

  ‘It’s in a factory in Melling. I’ll be working on a lathe, making parts for aeroplanes. The money’s good.’

  ‘And who’s going to look after our Tony?’

  ‘It’s shift work, though the women aren’t expected to do nights,’ she explained. ‘It’s six in the morning until two o’clock in the afternoon, then two till ten at night. Annie’s starting with me, but she’s going to do the other shift to mine and look after Tony when I’m working. I felt bound to do something for the war effort, Francis,’ she added virtuously. ‘There’s nowt much to do here with you away and Tony at school – and me dad thinks it’s a good idea.’

  Eileen got support from an unexpected quarter. Pete English said, ‘Good on yer, Mrs Costello. Me sister’s gone down south to work in a refugee hostel, that’s why I’ve got nowhere to go, she gave up our rooms in Preston. She’s earning twice what she did in her old job in a bakery, and having a good old time to boot.’

  Francis gave a steely smile. ‘Well, Eileen won’t be having a good old time, will you, luv? She’ll be working hard instead. Now, I think you’d best go and buy that stewing steak. I’m starving, and I’m sure Pete is, too.’

  They had an audience whilst they ate their tea; her dad and Sean, Paddy O’Hara and Mr Singerman, Sheila and half the kids, and numerous other neighbours. Francis beamed at them, and when the meal was finished, he opened a bottle of whisky and regaled them with funny stories about life in the army. There was the chap in his billet who put his false teeth in a glass before he went to bed and someone had filled the glass with green ink and his teeth were discoloured for weeks.

  Everyone screamed with laughter, except Eileen, who didn’t think it particularly funny. In fact, it seemed rather cruel.

  ‘The Sarge, he’s a regular and a right ould martinet,’ Francis continued. ‘Everybody hates him, but one night, I saw him in the pub all by himself and looking dead lonely, like, so I did no more than go over and offer to buy him a drink and we’re good mates now. Fact, that’s probably why I got me stripe, ’cos Vince put in a good word.’

  ‘That’s just like you, Francis,’ Jack Doyle said admiringly. ‘Sounds like you and the army get on like a house on fire.’

  ‘I’ve settled in better than most chaps,’ Francis said modestly. ‘As long as you do as you’re told and keep your nose clean, it’s a good life, though I miss me family something rotten.’ He reached out and chucked Tony under the chin and sent a warm glowing smile in the direction of his wife. ‘Don’t I, luv?’

  ‘Yes, Francis,’ Eileen replied obediently.

  ‘Now, who’d like another drop of whisky?’ Francis asked.

  Soon afterwards, the women went home, the men disappeared to the King’s Arms and Eileen put Tony to bed.

  ‘You’ll have to sleep in your own room tonight, son.’ He’d been sleeping with her for weeks on the clear understanding he was only there to protect her against enemy attack.

  ‘I know, Mam.’

  She gave him a kiss and an extra hard hug, then went downstairs and began to prepare a little speech for Francis. But to her surprise, he came back from the pub and announced he and Pete were going into town to a club. She presumed it was the same one he went to with Rodney Smith.

  ‘But how will you get home?’ she asked.

  ‘There might be a train running,’ he replied airily. ‘If not, we’ll get a taxi back.’

  ‘A taxi? It’ll take forever in the blackout.’ Headlights had to be covered with cardboard with only a narrow slit of light left to see by. Cars crept along the road at five miles an hour, guided by the kerbs which had been painted white.

  ‘Well, that’s for me to worry about, not you,’ he said irritably, so different from the way he’d been when people had been there.

  As the night wore on, Eileen turned off the light, feeling safer without it, though she wasn’t sure why. Earlier, she’d lit the fire – October had turned out to be wet and chilly – and kept poking the dying embers for a bit of ghostly illumination, enough to see the clock on the mantelpiece. When the fire eventually went out altogether, she drew the curtains back, but the moon only came out in patches, and she sat there, shivering out of a mixture of cold and fear. She turned the wireless on low and, with her ear close to the cloth grille, listened to the music of Henry Hall and his Orchestra. The news bulletin at midnight turned her blood cold. German planes had attacked the Firth of the Forth! They’d missed the bridge, and four planes had been shot down, but even so, it was ominous news, the first air-raid attack on the British Isles.

  Soon after that, the Kellys next door came home, and the two brothers had one of their flaming rows. But May Kelly kept Fin and Failey firmly under her thumb, and Eileen waited for the inevitable reaction.

  ‘Shut your gobs, the pair of yez,’ May bawled, ‘or you’ll wake the neighbours up,’ which usually roused anyone who’d managed to sleep through the fight.

  It was half past one when Francis came home and Eileen could tell, from the muffled curses and occasional giggles when he showed Pete English into the parlour where she’d made a bed up on the settee, that he was drunk out of his mind. He came stumbling through the room where she was sitting and, with her eyes now used to the dark, sh
e saw him reach for the light switch. Then he uttered an obscenity. Even in his drunken state he’d noticed the curtains were open which meant he couldn’t turn on the light. Imagine, that great man, Francis Costello, fined for a blackout offence! He staggered through the back kitchen and down the yard to the lavatory. A few minutes later, he came back and went upstairs.

  He hadn’t noticed she was there!

  Eileen, listening hard, heard the bedsprings creak and breathed a sigh of relief. He was so drunk, he’d probably go asleep without her. She took a deep breath, her heart was thumping wildly, and after a while felt herself begin to doze and gave in to a blessed feeling of relief. She was safe!

  She would have screamed, but she couldn’t. There was a hand over her mouth and another on the back of her neck. She felt herself being yanked roughly out of the chair and a voice hissed in her ear, ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing down here? You’re me wife, you bitch!’

  Francis!

  He turned her round and flung her down into the chair and held her there, her face buried in the cushion. She gagged for breath as he tore away her clothes and she prayed she would die or at least lose consciousness, but her prayers weren’t answered.

  When he’d finished and removed his heavy weight from on top of her, she began to cry quietly. He said nothing, but returned to bed and left her there, feeling dirty and utterly despairing. She stopped crying after a while in case the sound disturbed Tony, and dragged herself into the back kitchen where she washed her body from head to toe. Then she made a cup of tea and sat in the chair, smoking, her mind a blur of confusion. What was a woman supposed to do in this situation? Just go on for the rest of her life being treated like an animal? She could leave him, but where would she go? There was Tony to think of. She’d have no furniture, what they had now belonged to Francis, and the rent book was in his name. People looked down on women who left their husbands. No matter what the man did, no matter how badly he treated her, the woman was supposed to stay by his side, in her place, and put up with it. Dai Evans knocked Ellis around when he was in his cups, but Ellis appeared rather proud of the occasional black eye, as if it were some sort of trophy, and she was almost as big as Dai and gave as good as she got. It was Dai who’d been taken to hospital with a broken nose one Christmas Eve, not Ellis. But there was no way Eileen could stand up to Francis like that.