Lights Out Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  ‘Explain to your mam about Freda,’ Eileen called after him. She went into her sister’s in the hope of avoiding a rampaging Gladys demanding to know why Freda hadn’t come. Today had been a day and a half, and she didn’t feel in the mood for more drama just yet.

  ‘You’ve been gone for hours,’ remarked Sheila. She was nursing a fretful Ryan, who was cutting another tooth. Siobhan and Caitlin were playing house under the table, and the baby was fast asleep in her pram in the hall. ‘I was expecting you back ages ago.’

  ‘It was a long walk to and from the station,’ Eileen explained as she put the kettle on for a welcome cup of tea. She decided to keep Nick Stephens a secret. She wouldn’t be seeing him again, so there was little point in telling anyone. Instead, she described the strange set-up at the Watertons’ and the remarkable transformation there’d been in Freda Tutty. ‘I didn’t recognise her, Sheil. She looked ever so pretty.’

  ‘Freda, pretty?’ Sheila said half-heartedly, as if she were trying to look surprised for the sake of politeness.

  ‘She even talked different. And Dicky’s changed, too.’

  ‘He won’t be changed for long,’ Sheila said tiredly. ‘Not now he’s home again with Gladys.’

  ‘I wonder what she’ll do about Freda,’ Eileen mused. ‘If anyone asked me to make a decision, I wouldn’t know what to say. I mean, is she better off with her mam, who isn’t fit to be within a mile of children, or with that funny woman over in Southport who’s one penny short of a shilling?’

  When her sister didn’t answer, Eileen asked in a soft voice, ‘What’s the matter, luv?’

  ‘It’s Cal’s birthday today,’ Sheila said sadly. ‘No-one seems to have remembered, except me.’

  ‘Oh, Sheil, I’m sorry!’ Eileen cried. ‘It’s just that there’s so many birthdays, and what with starting work and having to go to Southport, it slipped me mind altogether …’

  ‘I don’t suppose it matters – under the circumstances,’ Sheila said wryly. ‘But it’s as if you’ve all forgotten he existed.’

  ‘Oh, Sheil, as if we would!’ Eileen wished with all her heart she could share her sister’s grief, take some of the heavy load off her shoulders. ‘Is there anything I can do, like?’

  ‘There is something, Eileen. I asked Brenda Mahon to knit Cal a Fair Isle pullover for his birthday. I reckon it’s well finished by now, but although I see Brenda every day, neither of us can bring ourselves to mention it. If I give you the money, will you collect it for me? Perhaps it’ll do our Sean instead.’ Sheila began to stroke Ryan’s cheek with her little finger. ‘He’s the image of Cal, don’t you think, Eileen? The other lads are more like our side of the family.’

  ‘I suppose he is, luv.’ Eileen nodded, though she was unable to see much likeness to Cal in the little boy.

  ‘You know what I can’t stop thinking about? It keeps me awake night after night. How did he die? Was he blown up or burnt alive? Or did he drown? He was a good swimmer, but there were no boats around to pick up any survivors. If only one or two had been saved to tell us what happened.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Sheil.’ Eileen knelt in front of the chair and took both her sister and Ryan in her arms.

  ‘He was studying for his Master’s ticket, y’know, Eil,’ Sheila said in a muffled voice. ‘I used to listen to him reciting the Articles. I remember the sixth one in particular, “In fog, mist, falling snow, heavy rainstorms, all vessels must proceed at moderate speed.” I always felt it should rhyme, like poetry.’ She pulled away and made a brave attempt at a smile. ‘I tell you what, though, Sis, a cup of tea wouldn’t come amiss right now, and the kettle’s about to boil any minute.’

  Next morning, a letter with a Kettering postmark dropped on Eileen’s mat, so she knew straight away it was from Francis, and her heart began to thump as she tore it open. She’d heard nothing since she’d written to him over a month ago.

  To her amusement, the letter was neatly typed, as if he wanted to show off his new skill. It began, My darling Eileen. She skimmed through. He had seven days’ leave at Christmas and wanted to return home and spend the holiday with his beloved wife and son. He loved her, he always had. Her behaviour during his leave and her subsequent letter had come as a total shock, so much so, it had taken all this time before he could bring himself to reply. He confessed himself heartbroken, but perplexed. What had he done? Most couples had their ups and downs and tolerance was needed – on both sides. You never gave any sign you were unhappy, he wrote. If I’d thought you were, I would have wanted to put things right. The whole tone was grovelling, until she came to the last paragraph when he spoiled things by reminding her that it was his house, the rent book was in his name, and his money had paid for the furniture. Though he perished the thought, if she continued to refuse to have him back it was she who would have to leave. She would be without a roof over her head. In which case, I would insist Tony stayed with his dad, though Francis doubted if she would let things come to such a pretty pass.

  Changing tone again, he finished off, May God bless you, my darling Eileen. Your loving Francis.

  ‘You bloody hypocrite!’

  Eileen screwed the letter in a ball and flung it across the room, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Francis would never change. He only wanted to come home to get his political ambitions back on course, and might even behave himself over Christmas, or even on the next leave, but she knew once he was back for good he’d soon return to his old ways because he couldn’t help himself. He was right on one thing, though. She’d never given any sign that she was unhappy, but had let things go from bad to worse until they’d become untenable because she ‘was too frightened of what he’d do if she spoke out. It had taken the advent of a war to make her see it didn’t have to be this way. She wasn’t frightened now, except of his strength, and if he wanted his house back, he could have it. She’d find somewhere else. She was independent and earning a good wage of her own. Although she’d never known a respectable woman walk out on her husband before, there had to be a first time for everything …

  As for Tony staying with him! She guffawed. If he thought that, he had another think coming.

  In fact, she felt so incensed she got a writing pad out there and then and wrote to Francis, telling him exactly where he stood.

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Brazier. Do you think you’ll be able to find your way home all right?’

  He’d said the same thing every single night last week.

  ‘I will, Mr Sanderson. There’s a bit of a moon tonight. Goodnight, then. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He touched his hat politely. He was a nice man, a widower in his forties, rather withdrawn, and she sometimes wondered if he was as lonely and shy as she was herself.

  Tonight, she made her way along Stanley Road without difficulty, towards Lou, who would be waiting on the corner. Last week at work, people kept saying, ‘What’ve you done to yourself, Miss Brazier? You look quite different.’

  ‘Well, I broke me glasses in the blackout, that’s all,’ she’d reply. ‘I was going to get them mended, but I find I don’t seem to need them any more.’

  ‘You look ten years younger,’ someone had remarked.

  But Miss Brazier knew it wasn’t the lack of glasses that made her look different. It was something else, something deep inside that was impossible to describe. The glasses had merely been a shield to hide behind from the world, but now she didn’t need a shield. She’d come alive for the first time in her life. Suddenly, she could talk to people. That night in the blackout had broken down her reservations once and for all. People, she realised, were quite nice if you were nice to them in return.

  But it was Lou who’d wrought the greatest change. The minutes they’d been together, walking arm in arm along Strand Road, came to no more than an hour if added up, but Lou, whom she wouldn’t recognise if they met in daylight, who was no more than a tall shadowy figure, said the most flattering things and made her feel young and feminine and, well, almost
attractive.

  ‘Good evening, Helen.’

  She gave a start. She hadn’t reached the corner yet. ‘Is that you, Lou?’

  ‘I thought I’d walk down a bit to meet you, seeing as the good Lord has seen fit to send us a nice big moon. Romantic, isn’t it?’ He began to croon, ‘Moonlight becomes you …’

  She dug him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Get away with you! You’re always kidding, Lou Murphy.’

  He tucked her arm in his, ‘You like it, though, don’t you, Helen?’

  Oh, yes she liked it! She liked everything about him; his joking good humour, the way he listened so sympathetically when she confessed how terribly empty her life was, something she’d never told anyone before; the way he squeezed her arm affectionately, as if he understood completely.

  Tonight, in the light of the half moon, she saw him for the first time. His face was long and thin, with sharp cheekbones and round pale eyes. She thought him very good-looking, almost handsome. He had a bushy light-coloured moustache and she had to suppress the urge to reach up and touch it. He wore a wide trilby hat and a mackintosh with the collar turned up.

  ‘And what d’you think you’re staring at, Miss?’ he enquired jokingly.

  ‘The cat can look at the Queen,’ she said archly. ‘I didn’t realise you had a moustache. I was wondering what colour it was.’

  ‘Same colour as me hair.’ He removed his hat. ‘I don’t suppose you can see proper, like, but it’s ginger.’

  ‘Ginger?’

  ‘That’s what they call me at work, Ginger Murphy.’

  ‘I prefer Lou.’

  ‘So do I. Helen and Lou. Lou and Helen. Go together well, don’t they?’

  She didn’t answer because she felt suddenly breathless and dizzy. Helen and Lou!

  ‘What did you do with yourself yesterday, Helen?’ he asked.

  ‘I went to church, but there never seems much to do on a Sunday,’ she replied. She always ended up going to bed early, before the silence and sense of isolation swallowed her up.

  ‘Don’t you ever go to the pictures? I love a good picture, it really takes you out of yourself.’

  ‘Mother always disapproved of the pictures. She thought they were sinful.’

  He laughed disparagingly. ‘Well, Mother’s been dead a long time. It’s what Helen wants that’s important now. What would you say to you and me going to the pictures one night? Would you like that?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she replied weakly.

  ‘I’ll see what’s on, and we’ll fix it later in the week.’ He began to tell her about the mischief his sister’s children had got up to over the weekend, and before she knew where she was, they’d reached the corner of Marsh Lane and it was time for him to go. To her surprise, he held on to her arm. ‘How about offering me a cup of tea, Helen?’

  ‘But won’t your sister be expecting you?’ she asked in a shaky voice. Her insides were in such a state of turmoil that she felt as if they were about to fall out onto the pavement. She should really refuse, after all, she scarcely knew him, but say he took offence and she never saw him again? She wasn’t prepared to risk that happening.

  ‘Me sister won’t mind,’ he said dismissively. ‘She’ll just stick me dinner in the oven till I get home.’

  ‘In that case, I suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’ There was disappointment in his voice and she was worried he was hurt.

  ‘I am, really I am,’ she assured him. Then she laughed gaily. ‘Mr Murphy, what would you say to a cup of tea, like?’

  Then he confused her more than ever by lifting her gloved hand to his lips and kissing it. ‘Why, Miss Brazier, how nice of you to ask. I accept without hesitation. In fact, wild horses wouldn’t stop me.’

  Chapter 7

  Jessica Fleming had never in her entire life hated anyone as much as she hated Veronica. As she’d been taken on to prevent Veronica’s veins from swelling any larger, Jessica had envisaged being left to her own devices once she’d got the hang of things. But instead of resting her purple legs in the flat above the shop, Veronica stayed downstairs, to spy on her constantly from the stockroom at the back, to criticise, to poke fun at her accent, and generally make life as uncomfortable as it was in her power to do. More often than not, as soon as Jessica had made a sale, Veronica would emerge to ‘finish it off’, as if her assistant couldn’t finish it off herself. It was as if the woman was paying elevenpence an hour to have someone to torture.

  And Veronica was a crook. Well, almost a crook. At the end of Jessica’s first week, when she’d thought she’d earned quite a lot in commission, she’d found merely a few pence extra in her wages.

  ‘I should have far more than this,’ she protested.

  ‘Did you put the money in the till?’ sneered Veronica.

  Jessica looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘When you’d sold the goods, who was it put the money in the till?’

  ‘You did, but only after I’d made the sale.’

  ‘It’s whoever puts the money in the till that gets the commission.’

  ‘But that’s not fair!’ Jessica said indignantly. ‘I was wrapping things up and you came out and took it.’

  ‘It’s sod your luck, then, isn’t it? You’ll just have to be a bit quicker off the mark next time.’

  Since then, there was a tussle whenever a sale was being completed, with Jessica trying to get the customer to pay before she put the goods in a bag, and Veronica emerging from her eyrie in the back like a great black eagle, ready to pluck the money out of the customer’s hand before Jessica could get to it.

  What made Veronica’s behaviour all the more hypocritical, thought Jessica, smarting with a sense of real injustice, was that the bloody woman had a little font of holy water attached to the wall of the stockroom, and she came swooping out making the sign of the cross, as if expecting Old Nick himself had come in to buy a pair of knickers.

  There’d been few customers this particular morning and Jessica stood behind the counter, feeling bored. If Veronica had been a different kind of person, she could have sat on one of the rickety chairs in the stockroom and chatted to pass the time, but there was no way she would share air space with that woman if she could avoid it, apart from which, you could hardly breathe, Veronica sprinkled herself so liberally with cheap lavender water. Even in one of her rare friendly moods, all she went on about were her three late husbands, all of whom had been considerably older than herself, describing their various deaths in gruesome and unpleasant detail. Jessica glanced at her watch and sighed. Another hour and a half to go.

  ‘Not keeping you, am I?’

  Jessica jumped. Veronica was watching from the back, her horrible black eyes gleaming spitefully.

  ‘I was merely wondering what time it was,’ Jessica said coldly.

  ‘Idle hands make the devil’s work.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do? I can’t sell things if there are no customers.’

  ‘You could tidy up a few drawers, instead of standing there like a pill garlic.’

  Jessica shrugged. ‘All right. You’ve only got to ask.’

  None of the drawers needed tidying, but Jessica dutifully began to straighten up the contents. It was better than doing nothing. If only she could get another job, but there was little else she could do! Once she’d earned enough to pay for the alterations, she’d leave and take up something more befitting a woman of her background, voluntary war work, for instance. If she stayed much longer, she’d end up a nervous wreck.

  A customer entered and bought two liberty bodices for her daughter. Jessica managed to snatch the ten shilling note out of her hand just as Veronica reached for it. The customer gone, she made a note of the sale on a piece of paper beside the till with an air of quiet triumph.

  There was no time for further hostilities, because almost immediately the door opened again and a stout, middle-aged woman entered, carrying two loaded shopping bags and perspirin
g profusely.

  ‘I’d like to see your range of corselets, please.’

  ‘What size, Madam?’ Jessica enquired courteously.

  ‘Mrs Bingham!’ Veronica came leaping into the shop making the sign of the cross and bowing obsequiously. It seemed this customer, who was undoubtedly better dressed and better spoken than the usual clientele, merited her oiliest and most servile manner. ‘I’ve got a new range in. Let me show you.’

  Jessica shrank back, relieved. She hated selling corsets. Customers usually tried them on in the curtained alcove behind, and she was expected to go in once they had the garments on and help pull laces and fasten hooks, which made her flesh crawl.

  Mrs Bingham chose three pairs of corselets to try on, and she and Veronica went into the back where they remained for nearly half an hour. In the meantime, Jessica sold two long-sleeved vests to a woman with rheumatism in her elbows, and a pair of rayon stockings to another. She was making a note of the sales on the paper beside the till when Veronica emerged and flung two pairs of corselets on the counter.

  ‘Sort these out and put them away,’ she snapped. ‘She’s having the pair she’s got on now, the dearest ones.’

  Nose wrinkling, Jessica picked gingerly at the laces of the violent pink brocade garments which had touched another woman’s sweaty flesh. Veronica was grinning to herself and nodding her head repeatedly like a gaunt yellow donkey, waiting for the customer to get dressed.

  ‘Mrs Bingham’s husband is the Town Clerk,’ she hissed boastfully. ‘Her son went to university and got a degree. He’s a teacher at a grammar school in Waterloo.’ She nodded again, as if to say, ‘There now!’ and waited for Jessica’s protestations of incredulity.

  ‘So what, my husband’s got a degree,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Y’what!’ Veronica’s mouth fell open, revealing scraps of food wedged between her teeth. Jessica winced delicately. ‘What are you doing here, then?’

  Jessica didn’t reply. Instead, she wondered what was she doing there? Why was she re-lacing corselets off fat sweaty women when her husband had a degree? She hadn’t thought about it before, but Arthur could get a job on the strength of his qualifications. There was no need to drive a lorry when he had a BA with Honours in Archaeology. He too could work in a grammar school. With so many teachers being called up, there was a shortage. Her heart began to dance. They could escape from Bootle. She could tell Veronica what to do with her job. She’d have a word with Arthur the minute he got home that night.