by Maureen Lee
‘Sleep in heavenly peace.’ She hit top C smoothly and effortlessly. ‘Sleep in heavenly peace.’
Jessica sang two more verses, then began The First Noel. In the various living rooms and back kitchens of Pearl Street, surprised people stopped what they were doing to listen to the pure angelic voice coming from Number 5. Despite the cold, a few even opened their doors a crack to hear better. Paddy O’Hara, opposite, wretched and miserable because he’d taken Spot to the vet that morning to be put down, felt strangely uplifted.
Unable to think of any more verses, Jessica sank back in the chair, exhausted. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the front door and she went to answer it. She knew who it would be and didn’t mind a bit, not at the moment. As expected, Mr Singerman was standing outside. He was holding a bottle of sherry.
‘I thought you’d like a drink to celebrate,’ he smiled.
Jessica smiled back. ‘Celebrate what?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. It’s just that you sounded as if you were celebrating something.’
‘I think I was. Come in. I’d love a drink. In fact, I was about to have one …’
‘It’s only cheap sherry. I always buy a bottle in case people drop in over Christmas.’ His rather rheumy eyes grew round as he entered the living room. ‘You have this place looking nice – and a full size carpet, too!’
‘If I have a sherry, would you like something else? Whisky, rum, a liqueur? There’s all sorts in the cocktail cabinet.’
‘A cocktail cabinet! This I must see.’
She took him into the front room and his eyes grew even rounder when she opened the doors of the black lacquered cocktail cabinet and a painted glass tray slid out at the same time. The cut glass decanters gleamed, reflected in the mirrored back and sides. Assorted matching glasses were stacked neatly in holders on each side. Jessica noticed the brandy was at exactly the same level as when they had moved in. Arthur seemed satisfied with his pint at the King’s Arms nowadays.
‘That’s a fine piece of furniture!’ Mr Singerman gasped. He surveyed the row of bottles at the back. ‘I think I’d like a liqueur. Benedictine would be a treat. I haven’t had a liqueur since the day I got married.’
When they were both settled in front of the fire nursing their drinks, he said, ‘You know, you should do something with that voice. It’s a crying shame to let such a talent go to waste.’
‘I used to be in a choir,’ Jessica explained. ‘But I haven’t felt much like singing lately.’
‘I’m playing at a carol concert tomorrow night. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘You mean and sing?’
He nodded eagerly. ‘We make a good pair. I felt as if you were urging me to play better. My old fingers seemed to come to life.’
Jessica felt pleased at the compliment, so sincerely expressed. ‘I wouldn’t need much persuading,’ she said.
‘Then you’ll do it!’ He looked genuinely glad.
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘All of a sudden, I feel like singing again.’
‘You know, I’m always being asked to play at concerts, particularly since this damned war began. Troops in transit like a hearty sing-song, and good pianists are hard to come by.’ He looked, for the moment, a trifle self-important. A lonely old man, pleased to feel wanted now and then. Jessica, who rarely noticed other people’s feelings, found herself blinking at this awareness.
‘Music is a great release,’ she said, somewhat grandly and not quite sure what she meant, though Mr Singerman seemed to understand.
‘It certainly is,’ he concurred. They smiled at each other. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous,’ he went on, ‘Arthur said you’re from Calderstones and I’ve never been that side of Liverpool, but I have a strong feeling I’ve seen you before.’
‘I used to live across the road next door to the coalyard,’ Jessica replied. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Mrs Poulson had referred to her as ‘Jessie.’ ‘I never said it was Jessie who took me money,’ she’d said. Mrs Poulson must have recognised her from way back, and if she knew, all sorts of other people would know, too. She’d only make herself look ridiculous by denying her roots.
Mr Singerman’s face lit up. ‘Bert Hennessy’s daughter! You used to sing even then.’
‘And your daughter was a pianist!’ The memories flooded back. A lovely, dark-haired, serious looking child, a few years younger than herself, who never played out with the other children, but practised on the piano hour after hour. And Mr Singerman, already stooped and grey haired, a widower whose wife had died giving birth to her talented daughter. What was the girl’s name? Jessica racked her brains. ‘Ruth!’ she said aloud.
‘That’s right, my Ruth. Has Arthur told you . .?’
‘Yes. I’m terribly sorry.’ His deeply lined jaw trembled and she felt a surge of pity. Her words of comfort seemed so trite and meaningless. ‘Terribly sorry,’ she repeated. In order to cheer him up a bit, she said, ‘I’ve always intended to take up some sort of war work. I’ll go along with you to all these troop concerts, if you like. I read in the paper, they’re going to start giving concerts in factories in the lunch hour. “Workers’ Playtimes”, they’ll be called. We could do them, too.’
In the early hours of Christmas morning, the snow fell thick and fast, but had stopped when daylight came. Eileen Costello, lighting the fire in the parlour where they’d be eating dinner later on, glanced out of the window. The world seemed to have changed shape lately, become rounder, smoother, everything buried under a thick crust of white. A few men were outside with shovels, yet again clearing a space to walk on. She sniffed as the smell of a roasting chicken wafted into the room. She’d peel the potatoes in a minute ready to roast with the bird, then prepare the stuffing, start boiling the pudding …
Tony was making battle noises in the living room as his soldiers attacked the Maginot line. The sounds had been going on since half past four, when he’d woken up and found the presents beside the bed, including a tank off Annie. So different from previous Christmases, when Francis, for some reason she could never fathom, had forbidden Tony to get up and touch his presents until eight o’clock, then only let him play with them for certain periods of time. Thinking of Francis made her feel uneasy. He hadn’t replied to her letter, and she kept expecting him just to turn up. After all, a man had a right to expect to spend Christmas with his family. People kept asking when he’d be home.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ she told them vaguely. ‘There’s just a chance he might not make it.’ She brushed off their expressions of shocked sympathy, with, ‘We’ll just have to manage without him, won’t we?’
Her dad and Sean were coming to dinner, along with Sheila and the kids and poor Paddy O’Hara, who was in a right old state having had Spot put down. She’d asked Mr Singerman, but to her surprise, he’d refused. Apparently, he’d already accepted an invitation to the Flemings’.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Eileen. Perhaps I could come over in the afternoon?’ he’d said, anxious not to hurt her feelings.
‘You know you’re always welcome in this house, luv,’ she told him. ‘There’ll be a few folks coming in to listen to the King’s speech.’
As Eileen opened up the leaves at each end of the table, she decided it would be best to have two sittings; kids first, grown-ups second. She’d never get that lot around the table in one go. She spread the thick felt undercloth and covered it with the best white damask. After studying the table thoughtfully for a while, she removed the white cloth and replaced it with the pale blue second best. The kids could make all the mess they liked on that, she’d use the white one for the second sitting.
She was getting the best cutlery out of its box – a wedding present from her dad – when Annie came dancing in.
Annie turned sideways and posed. ‘What d’think of me uplift?’
‘You don’t look any different,’ Eileen said after a while.
‘Christ Almighty, girl. I pay two and ninepence for a new brassie
re and I don’t look any different?’
‘Well, you’re not big enough, are you? You need to stuff yourself with cotton wool if you want any shape at all.’
‘Thanks a lot! Just for that, I might not wish you a Merry Christmas.’
When Eileen merely grinned, Annie sighed dramatically. ‘I’ve brought your Christmas present.’ She handed over a little box and gave Eileen a hearty kiss on the cheek at the same time. ‘Merry Christmas, luv.’
‘And the same to you, Annie.’
‘It couldn’t be any merrier, not with our Terry and Joe home. I’m so bloody happy I could hug meself to death.’
‘Earrings! Oh, they’re lovely, Annie. Thanks very much. I’ll put them on this minute.’ Eileen clipped the pearl drops on her ears. ‘What do they look like?’
‘They look a treat, honest.’
‘I’ve got your present under the tree.’ She’d bought Annie a leather purse, as her old one had worn away to the lining in places.
‘It’s exactly what I wanted!’ said Annie delightedly when she opened the gift. ‘And there’s a penny piece already in it!’
‘That’s so it’ll never be empty.’
‘Ta, luv. I’d better be getting home. I’ve never had to make a meal for six people before. I was working meself up into a right tizzy earlier on.’
‘Six people, Annie?’
‘Well, you know I asked Charlie and Rosie Gregson?’
‘That makes five, with you and the lads.’
Annie’s eyes sparkled wickedly. ‘And there’s Barney.’
‘Who the hell’s Barney?’ Eileen demanded.
‘Remember me telling you about this chap from Dunnings who asked me out the first week?’
‘Yes, but you never said you’d accepted.’
‘That’s ’cos I didn’t. The other girls – I told you they turned out all right in the end, didn’t I?’ When Eileen nodded, Annie went on, ‘Well, anyway, they told me Barney Clegg – he’s a bachelor, by the way – was a proper womaniser, out with a different girl every night and a string of broken hearts behind him. I quite fancied him meself, but I’d no intention of joining his harem. I’ve been playing hard to get, though quite frankly, I don’t know what he sees in me.’
Eileen began to protest indignantly at this and Annie shushed her with, ‘Come off it, Eil. I’ll be thirty-nine next birthday and I don’t exactly look like Lorretta Young, do I? Anyroad, when Barney was complaining he had nowhere to go on Christmas Day, I asked him to dinner. I told him if me lads liked the look of him, I’d go out to this dance he’s been going on about on New Year’s Eve.’
Eileen burst out laughing. ‘Annie! You’re the end, you really are! I’ll be round to have a dekko at this heart-breaker later on.’
After Annie had left, Eileen thought about Nick, who’d gone down to London to spend Christmas with friends. For someone who played such a minor role in her life, he seemed to occupy a major part of her thoughts. She wished she were in Annie’s position, free to go out with whosoever she chose and wondered, if she were free, if he asked, what would she say? Without hesitation, she knew it would be ‘yes’. Despite the differences in their backgrounds, they seemed to have an endless amount to talk about. With him, she seemed to run through a whole gamut of emotions. One minute he would make her feel feminine and desirable, a real woman for the first time in her life, despite her old coat, her clumsy overalls and headscarf. Then they would begin an argument, usually over some aspect of the war, and he appeared interested, even anxious to hear her views, unlike the men she’d met so far, who didn’t seem to think women were entitled to an opinion about anything. At other times, when he fell into one of his black moods, she would tenderly chivvy him back into a good humour.
Eileen sighed and Tony looked up. ‘What’s the matter, Mam?’
‘Nothing, luv. I was just worried the ’taters wouldn’t be ready in time, that’s all.’
The house had never felt so quiet and so empty. You could almost touch the silence and although it seemed silly, you could almost hear it, ticking away in the background.
Helen Brazier had got used to spending Christmas on her own since her mother died. It was just another lonely day among hundreds of other lonely days. But this year, without Lou, she felt her isolation even more keenly. She tried not to think about him, but once again, for the umpteenth time, she let herself live through that Saturday dinnertime when she’d seen him with his wife and children.
At first she’d assumed the woman was his sister, that the three children were his niece and nephews, though she couldn’t help but feel surprised when she saw the harassed looking woman was heavily pregnant. Hadn’t Lou said she was a widow? They were in Woolworths, which was packed to the gills with Christmas shoppers, struggling past the sweet counter and through the crowds towards her. Helen stopped and waited for them to reach her, intending only to catch Lou’s eye and give a secret smile. She wouldn’t introduce herself, he might not have mentioned her to his sister. Perhaps she could even manage to whisper a little message, ‘I’ve got you another Christmas present.’ A black enamelled cigarette lighter, which she intended having engraved with his initials, L.M. She’d ordered a bird from the Co-op butchery and there were two bottles of wine, one red, one white, in the larder ready for their Christmas dinner. And she’d bought clothes; frocks, silk stockings and lots of pretty, lace-trimmed underwear, and made an appointment for a Carmel wave on half day closing.
They were almost touching, yet he still hadn’t noticed her. He had a shabbily dressed child on either side, holding his hands. Children could easily get lost in the crush. The woman shoved past dragging a crying child behind her, almost knocking Helen over. She looked almost slatternly, with uncombed hair and her coat buttoned at the top, the rest hanging open over her swollen belly revealing a flowered pinny underneath. Despite the icy weather, she had neither gloves nor scarf. A different type from Lou altogether, decided Helen. He was dressed smartly, as always, in his mackintosh with the turned-up collar and his hat tipped over his right eye.
‘Eh, Dad, can I have a lolly?’ The little boy was actually standing on Helen’s foot. He tugged at the sleeve of Lou’s mack. ‘Can I have a lolly, Dad?’
‘For Christ Almighty’s sake, shurrup,’ Lou snapped. ‘How many times …’ His eyes met Helen’s. She may as well not have been there. His expression didn’t alter as he continued, ‘… must I tell you to stop pestering me?’
They were gone. Swallowed up by the crowd, and Helen was left, being jostled to and fro, feeling as if she had been hit by a thunderbolt.
He was married! His sister was not his sister, but his wife. The children belonged to him.
Helen and Lou. Lou and Helen. The words chased each other around her brain. He’d been playing her for a fool all this time. And that wasn’t all. There was the money she’d given him, nearly twenty pounds in all, for coats and shoes and Christmas presents for the children, for a new kettle, because his ‘sister’ had burned the bottom out of the old one, for all sorts of things.
Sitting in her house on Christmas Day with her freshly waved hair and in one of the new frocks which she’d worn mostly as a gesture of defiance, because she didn’t expect to see anyone, Helen Brazier wondered where the money had gone. Not on the children, by the look of them. He’d probably spent it at the dog track he frequented. She wondered if he’d waited for her last Monday. She could actually imagine him having the brazen cheek to carry on as before, to pretend they’d never seen each other in Woolworths. Since then, she’d gone home the long way round in order to avoid him.
She could hear the cries of children outside in the street and went into the parlour to peep through the lace curtain, hungry for signs of life, an indication that she was not the only person alive in the world that day. The children were playing with their new toys, skipping ropes, whips and tops, one or two scooters, on the narrow strip of pavement cleared to make a pathway. It was strange to see lights on in most parlours. Probably pe
ople were getting the tables ready for their Christmas dinner. A woman ran across the street and knocked on a door. The door was opened and Helen heard the sound of laughter as the woman entered. She saw the old man opposite, Mr Singerman, spruced up in his best suit, shuffle along to the neighbouring house and be let in by a lovely tall red-haired woman wearing a royal blue dress. Two cats emerged out of the back entry and chased each other down the street. Listening hard, Helen could hear singing from the King’s Arms. ‘Bless em all, bless em all, The long and the short and the tall.’ Helen shivered in the cold parlour and returned to sit by the fire in the living room.
‘Oh, Lou!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, someone!’
At first, she thought she’d imagined the knock on the door. When it sounded again, she began to tremble. Lou! Who else could it be? She didn’t move. Despite the fact she ached for company, Lou Murphy would never set foot in her house again. Yet …
Against her will, she felt herself being drawn into the hallway. Answering would make all the difference to the day. She was standing behind the door, wrestling with her emotions, when the letter box rattled and someone called, ‘Are you all right, Miss Brazier?’
She wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when she realised it wasn’t Lou, but the blind man from next door, Paddy O’Hara. She wondered why he should care? Why he should think she was not all right? For a moment, she considered merely shouting back that she was fine, but he was a nice man, gentle and courteous and, after all, it was Christmas Day.
She opened the door and he touched his cap politely. It was the first time she’d seen him without his little white dog.
‘Yes?’ she asked. Oh, why did it have to come out sounding so abrupt, almost rude?
‘I’m just on me way to the King’s Arms. I thought I’d stop by and wish you a Merry Christmas, like.’ There was a guarded look on his face. Helen realised he was expecting to be snubbed.