by Maureen Lee
She was close to tears of shame and embarrassment. ‘As long as we could read and write and do a few sums, that’s all the teachers cared.’
He cradled her in his arms. ‘And that’s all I care, too.’
‘But it’s not right!’ she cried indignantly. ‘Everyone has a right to a decent education. It should be the same for all children, rich or poor.’
She became aware that Nick was shaking and she pushed him away to find him convulsed with laughter. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked indignantly.
‘This is a New Year’s Eve ball. We’re here to have a good time, and a good time seems to be what everyone is having.’ He gestured towards the dancers stamping around the ballroom, twisting and turning to the Gay Gordons. ‘Except Eileen Costello, upset because she doesn’t know every single Shakespeare play off by heart, and ranting on about the lousy education system in the country.’
She felt her lips twitch. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said penitently.
‘And so you should be!’ He stood up, reaching for her. ‘Come on, there’s a bar somewhere. I think you need a drink.’
During the interval, Eileen tracked down the girls, feeling guilty for having deserted them, but they were happily surrounded by a crowd of foreign servicemen and claimed not to have noticed she wasn’t there.
After she had introduced Nick, Doris gasped, ‘Nick! So, that’s who those flowers were from that day! You canny bugger, Eileen. Where’ve you been hiding him all this time?’
‘I’ll tell you Monday,’ Eileen said hastily. ‘C’mon, Nick. I think we’re cramping this lot’s style.’
As the evening wore on the ballroom became more and more packed, and it was a struggle to move on the crowded floor. Despite this, Eileen and Nick managed a passable waltz together. ‘We should do this more often,’ he suggested. ‘A few more sessions and we could take it up professionally. We’ll call ourselves Fred Stephens and Ginger Costello.’
‘If you like,’ she said contentedly, her head on his shoulder. They danced in silence for a while, then Eileen looked at him directly. ‘It’s funny, but I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.’
‘We do get on well together, don’t we?’ He smiled down at her. ‘Perhaps the gods on high marked us down for each other a long while ago.’
‘Have you had many girlfriends?’ She wondered, slightly jealous, if he got on with other women as well as he did with her.
‘A few, but none like you. You’re different from any other woman I’ve ever known.’
‘I bet you told them that, too,’ she said with a laugh.
‘No!’ He stopped dancing and they were immediately buffeted by other couples around them. ‘There’s something about you, Eileen Costello,’ he said seriously. ‘You’re as innocent and unsullied as an angel.’
Before Eileen could digest this unusual compliment, Doris swirled by in the arms of a soldier with a face like a Greek god.
‘Isn’t my feller just like Gary Cooper?’ she yelled. ‘He’s a Polish officer and he don’t speak a word of English, but we get on fine. Don’t forget I’ve got your cloakroom ticket if you’re leaving early,’ she shouted as she was waltzed away.
‘You’re leaving early?’ Nick raised his eyebrows disappointedly. ‘I was hoping to catch a balloon for you when they’re released at midnight.’ There were hundreds of them suspended from the ceiling in a net.
‘I promised Tony I’d be back by then,’ Eileen told him, disappointed herself, but firm in her resolve not to let Tony down.
‘Just like Cinderella! In that case, can I take you home? I have a carriage waiting outside in the form of a motorbike and sidecar.’
‘I’ll get the train. I don’t want to spoil your evening.’ She trod on his toe and burst into giggles. ‘If I haven’t already spoilt it!’
‘What point is there staying once you’ve gone?’ He looked hurt, and the simple words made her head spin.
When half past eleven came, she found the girls and wished them a Happy New Year, then left with Nick to collect his bike from a nearby car park.
The drive to Bootle was unpleasant and claustrophobic along the unlit roads, with Nick scarcely visible on the bike beside her, and Eileen almost wished she’d taken up his joking offer to ride pillion. She felt relieved when they drew up outside the King’s Arms. As she began to struggle out, Nick alighted and came round to help.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely. ‘It’s been a lovely evening.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Costello. Likewise.’
She could sense him grinning down at her. ‘Oh, I suppose you’d better come in.’ She couldn’t bear the idea of him driving through the countryside all by himself as New Year struck, though on the other hand, what on earth would Sheila and her dad think when she turned up with a strange man?
‘I knew you’d ask,’ he chuckled.
‘You seem to know me better than I know meself,’ she said dryly.
Sheila took their arrival with far more equanimity than Eileen had expected. No matter how firmly you believed in the marriage vows, thought Sheila, it was a bit much to expect a woman to stay with a man who’d nearly killed her, particularly if the woman concerned happened to be your sister. In fact, she felt more than pleased to see Eileen looking so radiantly happy. She gave them the last of Jacob Singerman’s sherry.
Jack Doyle merely grunted, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ when Nick was introduced.
‘Where’s Tony?’ Eileen asked. The only child visible was Siobhan, playing with a doll in her favourite place underneath the table.
‘Fast asleep in the parlour,’ replied her sister. ‘Mr Singerman went home a while ago. I think he was a bit upset and wanted to be by himself.’
‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow,’ promised Eileen. She tugged Nick’s sleeve. ‘Come and meet Tony.’
They crept into the parlour. Tony was lying on the sofa covered with his grandad’s overcoat, his glasses askew and sucking his thumb like a baby. Eileen leaned down, gently removed the glasses and kissed her son’s pale cheek.
‘I won’t wake him,’ she whispered.
‘He’s a lovely child,’ said Nick seriously. ‘Almost as lovely as his mother.’ He pulled Eileen towards him and began to kiss her passionately. She felt his tongue wriggling against her lips, and for the briefest moment kept her mouth closed, her body stiff, then, unable to help herself, her body melted into his and she gave herself to him utterly.
‘Eileen! It’s almost midnight.’
Sheila’s voice brought them down to earth.
‘We’d better go in,’ Eileen said shyly.
When they returned to the living room, she wondered if she looked as bemused and dreamy as she felt, as they both sat and waited innocently for the clock to chime in the New Year.
When it did, Nick kissed her and Sheila modestly on the cheek and shook hands with her dad. Then he was despatched out of the back and ordered to collect a piece of coal on the way and return by the front door.
‘A dark stranger bearing coal, you’ll bring good luck,’ Sheila told him, when he departed, somewhat mystified. Whilst they waited, she said wistfully, ‘I wonder what Cal’s doing right now?’
‘I know exactly what Calum Reilly will be doing,’ Eileen said, hugging her, ‘thinking of you. He’s probably never stopped since he was taken prisoner.’
‘I can’t wait for him to come back!’
‘He’ll be home to a hero’s welcome,’ Jack Doyle said gruffly. ‘We’ll put the flags out for our Cal.’
Eileen smiled, wondering what Calum would think when he found himself in favour and Francis no longer the object of her dad’s stern affection. ‘Talking of coming home, where’s Nick? He’s taking an awful long time.’
Nick turned up eventually, having knocked on next-door-but-one by mistake, where George Ransome was having a party, and several young ladies had captured him and refused to let him go. ‘I’ve had two whiskies and a proposal of marriage,’ he said, laughingly rubbing smears of bright re
d lipstick off his face. ‘The people round here are very friendly.’
‘Where’s the coal?’ demanded Sheila. ‘I want to keep that piece on the mantelpiece beside Our Lady for luck.’
‘I’d like to make a toast.’ Jack Doyle stood, raising his glass. ‘Here’s to the year nineteen forty. May it bring Cal home safe and sound and good fortune to my family. But most of all, and I wish this more than I’ve ever wished anything in me life before, may it bring peace to this country of ours.’
Chapter 10
‘But you can’t take her!’ Vivien Waterton stared with horror at the tubby man in a black gabardine mackintosh who was standing in the middle of the room twiddling his bowler hat in his hands. She’d asked him to sit down, but he’d taken no notice.
‘I’m sorry, Madam, but I must. I have orders to return Freda Tutty to her mother.’
‘I don’t want to go back to me mother!’ Freda clung to Vivien’s arm. ‘She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t care if I’m there or not.’
‘It would appear she does.’ The man looked uncomfortable. He was sweating visibly in the over-heated room. ‘We have a letter from Mrs Tutty requesting your return.’
‘What d’yer mean, a letter?’ snarled Freda. ‘Me mam can’t write. She got the woman next door to do it.’
‘That may be, but it makes no difference,’ the man said stubbornly. ‘Now, if you’d like to pack a bag?’
‘You’ve no right just to turn up without notice,’ cried Vivien, close to tears. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?’
The man didn’t answer, but proceeded to twiddle further with his hat. This was the second case they’d had of a couple refusing to return their evacuee. In the first, due notice had been given that the child was to be removed on a certain day, only to find when they turned up that the boy had been whisked down south to relatives and had still not been located. The Billeting Office had no intention of making that mistake again. He felt sorry for the girl, though she looked a right little madam, and for the little, doll-like woman who wanted to keep her, but his main sympathy was with the mother, whom he had not yet met.
‘I’d like to ring my husband.’ The little woman reached for the telephone on the coffee table beside her. Clive wouldn’t let them take Freda away. ‘He’ll come straight home.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t wait, Madam.’
‘I won’t let you take me. You’ll have to drag me out,’ the girl threatened.
‘I hope that won’t be necessary, Miss, but if so, I have a constable waiting outside in the car.’
‘You can’t do this! You can’t!’ Vivien leaped to her feet, catching her knee on the coffee table. There was a sharp crack as bone touched wood and she felt her heart thud crazily in her chest. As she reached down to rub her knee, she was overcome with dizziness and would have fallen if Freda hadn’t flung her arms around her and begun to sob.
‘Oh, God!’ muttered the man, in agonies of embarrassment.
‘This isn’t the end, darling,’ said Vivien, still dizzy, and unaccountably breathless. ‘Clive will sort it out.’
‘I don’t want to leave, Vivien. I never want to leave.’
‘I know, darling.’ Vivien pushed the heaving form away. For the first time, staring at the strangely blurred little face convulsed with misery, she felt the stirrings of genuine, maternal love and with it came the realisation that Freda wasn’t her little sister, a playmate, but a child who needed her protection. At that moment, Vivien grew up. ‘Go with the man,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t be for long.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. In fact, tell Mrs Critchley to pack only a few of your things.’ She would have done it herself, but her head was whirling.
Ten minutes later, Vivien managed somehow to make her way to the door to wave goodbye to Freda. As soon as the car disappeared out of the drive, she turned to Mrs Critchley, who was standing gloating in the hall, ‘Ring Mr Waterton and tell him what has happened, then call the doctor, I think …’
Before she could finish, Vivien collapsed onto the floor.
The man in the black mac didn’t speak once on the drive back to Bootle, not even to the constable sitting at his side. In the back, Freda glowered at their red necks and wished they’d both drop dead and the car would crash and she’d escape back to Vivien. But her wish was in vain. Eventually, they drew up outside 14 Pearl Street.
The man looked in dismay at the filthy, curtainless windows of the house. He muttered, ‘You stay there!’ to Freda, as he got out and knocked on the door. He intended handing the girl over to her mother in person. Not until she was safely inside would he consider his job had been properly done.
To his further dismay, there was no answer to his knock. A woman stuck her head out of the upstairs window of a house opposite and shouted, ‘She’s not in.’
‘Where is she?’ he shouted back.
The woman shrugged. ‘Pissed out of her mind somewhere, I reckon.’
The man stood there, flummoxed. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t very well take the girl back to Southport. He noticed an entry going down the side of the end house and walked down and round to the back of Number 14. The back door was open when he tried it and he shouted, ‘Is anybody in?’
As expected, there was no reply. He went through the house. By God! It was disgusting! That poor kid, coming back to this! No wonder she hadn’t wanted to leave. Almost retching from the smell, he opened the front door and beckoned to Freda. She climbed out of the car carrying her suitcase. No longer crying, her face was hard and expressionless.
‘I haven’t got time to wait until your mother comes,’ he said abruptly. His conscience was pricking. He felt ashamed of the job he’d done that day. ‘Get inside.’
Her head held high, the girl went into the house and the man slammed the door, then got into his car and reversed out of the street so fast that the tyres made a screeching sound as he backed around the corner.
Freda heard the car roar away as she entered the house in which she had spent her entire life until that wonderful day last September when she had been sent to live with Vivien. She shivered. It was almost as cold as the inside of Vivien’s refrigerator. Wandering into the living room, she stared with mounting desperation at the thick dusty mould in the corners, the debris in the fireplace, the orange boxes used for chairs, the bare wooden table which held a few hard crusts of bread and a couple of filthy jam jars which were used as cups. Was she supposed to sit on one of those boxes in her best blue velvet coat? Sleep upstairs in that lousy smelling palliasse on the floor in her pretty nightdresses?
Where was Dicky? Perhaps he’d gone to school. They’d always gone more often in the winter than in summer, for warmth and a hot mid-morning drink. Vivien had put Freda’s name down for a little private school in Southport. She was supposed to start next Monday. She still might. Vivien had promised to come for her.
The back door opened and for a moment she thought it was Vivien come already. Perhaps she’d followed in a taxi?
But it was Mrs Costello who came into the house. She took a step back when she met Freda’s look of loathing.
‘Aggie Donovan said you were home. Are you all right?’
‘What do you think?’ Freda snarled.
‘You’ll soon settle back in,’ Mrs Costello said, though she looked troubled. As well she might, the stupid woman, thought Freda.
‘It’s all your fault,’ she spat. ‘It was you who wrote the letter for me mam. Why couldn’t you mind your own business?’
Eileen Costello sighed. Perhaps she should have refused, but Gladys was Freda’s mam, with every right to insist on having her daughter back. Nevertheless, if Freda wanted to stay …
‘I’m sorry,’ she said lamely. ‘If there’s anything I can do?’
‘You’ve already done enough,’ snapped Freda.
The woman seemed reluctant to go. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve got to leave for work soon, but there’s time to put
the kettle on.’
‘You can keep your tea. I don’t want anything off anyone.’
Freda went upstairs into the front bedroom, where she opened the window and sat on her suitcase waiting for Vivien. At the back of her mind, she visualised the scene; Vivien would phone Clive, who’d come home immediately. They’d get in the car and drive straight to Bootle. In fact, they might arrive any minute. She leaned out of the window, watching anxiously.
She heard her mam come home, but made no attempt to go down and announce her return. It wasn’t until Dicky found her hours later that Gladys realised Freda was back. She came up and regarded Freda blearily for several seconds. She had a feeling she hadn’t seen her daughter for a long while, though couldn’t remember why. Freda looked different. Where had she got those posh clothes from?
‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked.
‘To the moon.’
Gladys’s brain may well have been rotten with booze, but she recognised impudence when she heard it. She was also aware of the look of disgust on her daughter’s strangely plump and rosy face. She lunged forward, fist raised ready to strike.
To her amazement, Freda stood up and caught the fist with surprising strength. ‘Don’t you dare lay a hand on me,’ she hissed.
Gladys fell back in bewilderment. She stared at her daughter wordlessly, then stumbled down the stairs, muttering underneath her breath as she tried to take in what had just happened.
Dicky crept into the bedroom and sat on the floor beside his sister. He was glad she was back. There had been no-one to talk to whilst she’d been away. At school, the other pupils acted as if he was invisible except when they felt like beating someone up. No-one wanted to be a friend of Dicky Tutty’s.
‘Where’s all your nice clothes gone?’ asked Freda. The smartly dressed healthy-looking little boy might never have existed. Dicky was back in his rags, his face and his thin bare arms a mass of scabs and bruises.