by Maureen Lee
She was about to leap out and throw herself into her clothes when she remembered it was Saturday and she didn’t have to go to work. She sank back onto the pillow, prepared to relish a welcome lie-in after her first exhausting week at work. It was several seconds before she realised that the banging from her silly dream still persisted. Someone was hammering on the door.
‘Damn!’ she muttered wearily. Who on earth could it be at this hour? Her heart turned over at the thought it might be Francis. Perhaps he’d tried to use his key and found it didn’t fit. The banging increased. Whoever was there had begun to use their fists.
She climbed over Tony, slipped into her dressing gown and crept downstairs. Peeping cautiously through the parlour curtains, she saw the black-shawled figure of Gladys Tutty outside in the pouring rain, beating on the front door with her fists like a madwoman.
‘Damn!’ she said again as she walked down the hall and opened the door to her neighbour.
‘What’s the matter, Gladys?’ Eileen tried not to sound annoyed. Perhaps it was some sort of emergency.
‘I want me kids back,’ said Gladys hoarsely. She was soaking wet and swaying on her feet. Her matted hair stuck up wildly around her head like the tails of little animals, and rivulets of rain made white streaks on her filthy face. Eileen reckoned she’d probably been out all night drinking in the illegal den she frequented somewhere down the Dock Road. It was said by those who knew these things that Gladys would go outside with any man for a double gin.
‘Well, I haven’t got your kids, have I, Gladys?’ Eileen said irritably, thinking about the warm bed she’d just vacated and to which she longed to return.
‘I want them back!’ Incredibly, the little woman looked on the verge of tears.
‘You’ll have to go and see the billeting people or something,’ Eileen explained patiently. As if to prove how unreal the war was, how phoney, virtually all the children who’d been evacuated had come back weeks ago. Billy Templedown from Opal Street, who was only ten, had walked home from Southport on the railway line all by himself.
‘The what?’ Gladys’s jaw dropped and she looked vacant.
‘The billeting people, the ones who came to see you when Freda and Dicky were evacuated.’ When Gladys looked no more enlightened, Eileen said reluctantly, ‘Oh, I suppose you’d better come in.’ She hated having Gladys Tutty in her house, the smell persisted for days, but the poor woman was getting more soaked by the minute. As Gladys went down the hall, her too large men’s boots squelched, squirting water all over the linoleum.
‘D’know where Freda and Dicky are?’ asked Eileen when Gladys was sitting down.
‘Southport.’
‘I know that much, Gladys. I meant have you got their address? Have you had a letter from them?’ Even as she spoke, Eileen knew the last question was stupid. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine Freda or Dicky writing a letter to their mam.
‘I got a letter telling me the address where they were staying,’ Gladys said vaguely. Then she added in a stubborn voice, ‘I want me kids back. I want them back today. Everyone else’s kids are back except mine.’
Which was, when you thought about it, and Eileen hadn’t thought about it before, somewhat amazing. She would have expected anyone blessed with Freda and Dicky Tutty to have got rid of them at the very first opportunity. She wanted to ask Gladys why she wanted them back. Gladys paid no heed to her children. She fed them when she thought about it and then only with bread and dripping. During her frequent drinking bouts she often stayed out all night, and Freda and Dicky were left to their own devices in the cold, comfortless house. And when Gladys was there, the only acknowledgment the pair received was the occasional swipe or a good beating if their gin-starved mam was in a particularly foul mood. The Schoolie had long given up coming round to see why they weren’t in school and the poor little mites were kept going by their own streetwise ability to stay alive and the goodwill of the neighbours who gave them food from time to time, though they were difficult kids to help. But, Eileen supposed, Gladys loved her children in her own peculiar way, every bit as much as she loved Tony.
‘I want me kids back,’ said Gladys, who’d begun to sound like a needle stuck on the turntable of a gramophone. Gladys could never have told anybody why she wanted her children. Deep within her muddled brain, she felt something was missing from her wretched life, that there was a curious emptiness she couldn’t always put her finger on. Coming home that morning, she’d remembered. Freda and Dicky! They’d been gone for days, or was it months? How to get them back was quite beyond her, her mind couldn’t begin to cope with the problem, but Eileen Costello would know. Eileen Costello seemed to know everything.
Eileen sighed. ‘I’ll tell you what, Gladys. Go and get that letter you mentioned and I’ll write to the billeting people and ask them to send Freda and Dicky home.’
‘I want them back today,’ Gladys muttered. Rain was dripping from the ends of her shawl and the hem of her black skirt, making little puddles on the floor beneath the chair. The chair would be soaked, Eileen thought. She’d have to wash the cover and put the cushion in the airing cupboard to dry.
‘But Gladys, there’s nowt I can do about it,’ she protested.
‘This place, Southport. Is it far, like?’
‘About fifteen miles, I reckon. You’re not thinking of going, are you, Gladys?’ The idea of Gladys catching a train and finding the address was ludicrous.
‘You can fetch them for me.’
‘Me!’
Gladys began to cry with hoarse, heartrending sobs that shook her entire body. ‘I want me kids back,’ she moaned.
Eileen immediately felt terrible. The poor woman was obviously distraught, yet here she was, concerned only about her cushion covers getting wet and puddles on the lino. On the other hand, going to Southport to request the return of Freda and Dicky seemed a bit much to ask, though whoever had them would probably be only too glad to see the back of the pair – and they had to come home some time.
‘I tell you what, Gladys, get me the address, and I’ll go to Southport tomorrow and…’ And what? Maybe Freda and Dicky wouldn’t want to come back. ‘And see what I can do,’ she finished lamely.
‘I want them back today.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,’ Eileen said firmly, feeling irritated that she’d offered to do a good turn and it wasn’t appreciated. ‘I’ve got stacks of housework to catch up on, I’ve been working all week, and I’m going out tonight with Annie Poulson to the pictures.’
The cinemas had been allowed to re-open in October. Eileen left Tony at home to listen to the wireless with Mr Singerman and Paddy O’Hara whilst she and Annie went to see Love Affair with Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne at the Palace in Marsh Lane. It was so sad and romantic they came out into the blackout in tears.
‘I suppose it’s nice to have a good cry now and then,’ said Eileen tearfully as they made their way home down Marsh Lane.
‘You’re right, though I’ve no need to go to the pictures to have a cry nowadays,’ Annie said, sniffing.
Eileen linked her arm. ‘Sorry, luv. I’m forever putting me big foot in me mouth. I did the same thing with our Sheila the other day.’
Annie patted her hand in the dark. ‘Don’t take no notice of me, Eil. I’m being dead stupid. I’ve had a letter from our Terry and he and Joe are having a fine old time in France. Y’know, they drink wine over there the same way we drink water? Wine! Terry said it’s cheaper than lemonade.’
‘Honest? You don’t say!’
‘I suppose it’s because if the war started proper like, and one of them got killed, I’d be so bloody angry I think I’d burst, ’cos it’s all such a stupid waste, the whole thing. It’s only men, the buggers, who start wars, never women. We just supply – what’s it called – the cannon fodder, in order for them to play their silly games. Still, me lads are coming home on leave for Christmas, so I’ve got that to look forward to.’
Th
ey collided with another couple and, after laughing apologies on both sides, continued on their way more cautiously. ‘Anyroad, I haven’t had a chance to see you all week,’ said Eileen. She’d been fast asleep by the time her friend got home at eleven o’clock. ‘You haven’t told me how you got on at Dunnings.’ All she knew so far was that Annie had gone in the Assembly Shop.
‘I hate it,’ Annie said flatly. ‘I’m learning to use a riveting gun and me bloody ears are still ringing from the noise and the other women are dead unfriendly, hardly one of ’em spoke to me all week. I’ve never been so glad to see Friday come in all me life before and I’m dreading Monday, I really am.’
Eileen felt uncomfortable. If Annie hadn’t been looking after Tony, they would have started together and had each other for company – and they would have been on the early shift where the girls, in the Workshop at least, were as friendly and as helpful as could be. She said as much to her friend, but Annie only snorted. ‘Don’t be stupid, girl. If you stayed at home for Tony, it’d only mean one pair of hands less for the war effort, wouldn’t it? Anyroad, how did you get on yourself?’
‘Oh, all right,’ Eileen replied, deciding not to enthuse too much, it might only make Annie feel worse, but by the end of the week, she’d firmly got the hang of the lathe, so much so that even the dour foreman, Alfie, had conceded she had an aptitude for it. She’d gradually got used to being on her feet for hours at a time, and with each day the time seemed to pass more quickly than the one before. By Friday, she was joining in the singing and the badinage, though still remained shocked at the lewd jokes the girls exchanged and the terrible foul language, directed mainly at Alfie and any other man who dared wander into the Workshop. ‘I don’t suppose you had an opportunity to go outside, being dark, like, did you, Annie, but it’s dead peaceful out there. I went in the dinner time to splash me face in the stream and take a breather. There was a chap fishing every day, though he never noticed me. It’ll be lovely in the summer.’ She squeezed Annie’s arm. ‘Perhaps it won’t be so bad next week, luv.’
‘Oh, I’ll get used to it. I’ve worked much harder than that in me day, and the fellers weren’t so bad. One of them asked me out tonight.’
‘Not a little man with a bald head who called you “Queen”? He asks everyone out.’
‘No, thanks very much! This one wasn’t bad looking at all. In fact, if I hadn’t already promised to go the pictures, I might have said yes.’
‘You wouldn’t!’ Eileen stopped dead, astonished. Annie had always been too wrapped up in her boys to show any interest in men.
‘I would,’ giggled Annie, adding indignantly, ‘I don’t know why you sound so surprised. You’d think I had a face like the back end of a bus or something. Come on.’ She gave Eileen a tug and they began walking again.
‘It’s not that, Annie. For one thing, you’ve just been calling fellers everything for starting wars, and, oh, I dunno, I didn’t think you could be bothered, that’s all.’
‘It’s not our sort of fellers that start wars, it’s the toffs, like your dad said,’ Annie answered scathingly. ‘As for being bothered, after Tom was killed, I couldn’t have stood another man near me, not for a long time, but since me lads left and the war began, everything seems different somehow. I feel as if I should rush out and do things I wouldn’t do ordinarily. D’you know what I mean, Eileen?’
Eileen paused before answering. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said eventually. ‘When I thought about us all being killed in the air raids, I was sorry I might die without having been in love proper like our Sheila. It seems a terrible thing to miss, loving someone proper. Not that I ever will now,’ she added wistfully. ‘Not even if I live to be eighty. I’m stuck with Francis, even if we’re not living together.’
‘Don’t be stupid, girl,’ Annie said crossly. ‘Have you never heard of divorce?’
‘Divorce!’ Eileen stopped again. ‘Christ Almighty, Annie. I’d be the talk of Bootle! Anyroad, Catholics can’t get divorced.’ She laughed. ‘Just imagine our Sheila’s face if I said I was getting divorced! She nearly had a fit the other day when I told her I wasn’t having Francis back.’
‘It was just a suggestion, that’s all.’ Annie began to drag her along. ‘Stop dawdling. If we hurry up, we’ll just be in time to hear the last bit of Band Waggon. Y’know how much I love Arthur Askey.’
When they reached Pearl Street, Eileen said, ‘Oh, by the way, Annie, can I have that navy-blue coat you’ve been hiding for me since we went to Paddy’s Market? I’d almost forgotten about it. I’m going to Southport tomorrow to fetch Freda and Dicky Tutty back and I thought I’d wear it.’ Knowing Francis would never approve of her wearing something from Paddy’s Market, she’d asked Annie to keep the coat until she could think up a convincing story to explain how it had been acquired. Now Francis had gone and there was no need to lie, she thought thankfully.
‘Sooner you than me,’ said Annie. ‘I’d come with you, but I want to start on me Christmas puddings ready for when me lads come home.’ She unlocked her front door. ‘I’ll get the coat for you now.’
‘Put that light out!’ a voice barked out of the blackness.
‘What bloody light?’ Annie barked back.
‘The one shining out the door, Annie Poulson.’
Annie had left a dim gas light burning on the landing, which was faintly visible through the open doorway. ‘Sod off, Nobby Geary,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m surprised you can’t find something more useful to do with your time than going around bullying and badgering poor innocent women who are terrified of the blackout.’
‘I’ll come in and keep you company for a little while, Annie,’ Nobby said in a leery voice. ‘You wouldn’t be terrified, not with me around.’
‘No, and I wouldn’t be innocent, either,’ snapped Annie, closing the front door with a bang.
Next day, Eileen took particular pains with her appearance. The people who had the Tuttys might be posh, and she wanted to look her best. She made herself up carefully, brushed her hair till it shone and tucked it behind her pearl-studded ears. Standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, she experimented with the navy-blue crocheted beret Annie had given her for Christmas, together with a pair of matching gloves. Brenda Mahon made the sets for two shillings each if you supplied the wool. Satisfied that the angle was jaunty enough without being daring, Eileen secured the beret with a pearl hatpin and slipped into the fine serge coat. She’d forgotten how perfectly it fitted and smoothed her hands over her lean hips with a sigh of satisfaction. The full flared skirt came to just below the knee. The coat seemed little worn and had clearly been expensive. She decided she wouldn’t be letting Bootle down when she turned up in Southport for the Tuttys, though wished she had a navy-blue handbag to match rather than the old black one which was getting very worn, and it was a pity she had to carry an umbrella, but the sky was heavy with grey clouds that promised rain.
‘Don’t you look smart!’ Sheila said admiringly when Eileen called to say she was on her way. ‘You look like Greta Garbo in that hat.’
Sheila was in the course of getting herself and the six small O’Briens dressed in their Sunday best for Mass. When Cal was away the two sisters usually went together, but today Eileen had been to church early, in the hope of getting to and from Southport before the blackout started.
She’d been worried relations with her sister would be soured after their conversation the previous week, but despite her deeply held beliefs, Sheila was too good-natured to let anything come between them and the subject of Francis hadn’t been raised again.
‘Keep an eye on Tony for me, Sheil. I won’t be gone long – I hope.’
The names of all the stations on the way to Southport had been removed in order to prevent spies from finding their way about. Eileen was glad she was going to the end of the line, else she would never have known where to get off! On most platforms, posters urged the public not to spread rumours; BE LIKE DAD, KEEP MUM, said one, and WALLS HAVE EARS, a
nother.
Whenever Eileen had been to Southport in the past, it had been summer, when the place was sunny, warm and crowded, so it was strange to emerge from the station to find a grey, cold and almost deserted town and a poster demanding to know is YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY?
Clutching the letter Gladys had received from the Billeting Officer, she asked a woman perusing the train timetable the way to Sunhill Road.
‘I’m afraid you’ve got a long walk ahead of you,’ the woman said. ‘The buses only go every two hours on a Sunday and one’s just left. Unless you take a taxi. There’s quite a chill in the wind today.’
‘I’ll walk,’ Eileen said hastily. Hell could freeze over before she would consider the extravagance of a taxi.
‘In that case, you go down Lord Street, turn right at the Golden Oak Café, then left …’
As Eileen walked along elegant Lord Street with its tree-lined reservation and exclusive shops which had been tastefully decorated for Christmas, she muttered the directions under her breath, but soon found herself distracted by the window displays. On previous occasions, she and Tony had made straight for the beach or the fairground: this was the first time she’d been alone with time to spare. Though she hadn’t really got time to spare, she told herself sternly, she was supposed to be looking for Freda and Dicky Tutty. But the clothes were out of this world, as were the prices, she noticed ruefully. She stopped in front of a window full of exquisite lingerie that took her breath away. Wandering on, she heard the sound of carols being played and came to a soaring glassroofed arcade with two storeys of little old-fashioned shops on either side. She couldn’t resist it. The Tuttys forgotten, she went inside, conscious of the sharp clatter of her heels on the intricately tiled floor. The sound seemed to echo upwards and upwards towards the pale pink and green arched roof. Eileen felt intrigued by the atmosphere which seemed to belong to another age altogether, a Victorian age when crinolined ladies came shopping in their carriages and shop assistants brought chairs, then showed them to the door, bowing respectfully. She strolled past the charming mullioned-windowed shops towards the music. At the wide curved end of the arcade she arrived at its source: a restaurant where, at the centre of a circle of crowded tables, two old ladies, one at a piano, the other on a violin, were playing God Rest Ye Merrie Gentlemen with gusto and obvious enjoyment. Eileen convinced herself there was time for a cup of tea. Hang the Tuttys for the moment. It might be ages before she came to Southport again and this was too fascinating to miss.