Lights Out Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  The rain was lashing down, making the windows rattle in their frames. It drummed on the roof and she hoped Billy would keep an eye on the loose slates over the lavatory. She’d been at him to fix them for ages, but would probably end up fixing them herself. She fixed most things around the house. Her lips twisted bitterly when she thought about Billy. His brother, John, had stayed in the ozzie with Alice until an hour before their lad was born. He’d only left because the girls were being looked after by a neighbour who was scared of the raids. But Billy had left her on the steps outside the ozzie when she was about to have their first-born child. Off to the pub, as usual. He didn’t know yet if she’d had a boy or a girl.

  There was a nurse in the glass cubicle at the end of the ward where a sprig of mistletoe hung over the door. She was at a desk, head bent, writing. The new mothers were expected to remain confined to their beds for seven whole days, not even allowed to go to the lavatory, but the woman slid from under the bedclothes and crept past, opening one half of the swing doors just enough to allow her through. The nurse didn’t look up.

  The dimly lit corridor was empty, silent. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold floor. She crept round corners, through more doors, dodged into the lavatories when she heard footsteps coming towards her. The footsteps passed, faded, and she looked both ways before coming out, hoping it wasn’t someone on their way to her ward who’d notice the empty bed, though it was unlikely. The hospital was understaffed. Some nurses had joined the Forces, or gone into better-paid jobs. There were a lot of part-timers and older nurses who’d retired and come back to do their bit.

  She arrived at the place that had been her destination all along: the nursery. Five rows of babies, tightly wrapped in sheets, like little mummies in their wooden cots. Most were asleep, a few grizzled, some had their eyes wide open. Like her, they couldn’t sleep.

  Her own baby had been whisked away because of the emergency and she’d barely seen him. Now she did, she saw he was a pale little thing. He looked sickly, she thought. There was yellow stuff in his eyes. As she stared at her sleeping child, she felt nothing. She was twenty-seven, older than Alice, and had been married longer. But she hadn’t wanted a baby. The sponge soaked in vinegar she’d inserted every night, which Billy knew nothing about, hadn’t worked for once.

  The child couldn’t possibly have come at a worse time. Just when she’d worn Billy down, ranted at him mercilessly for month after month, until he’d conceded that letting his missus get a job wasn’t a sore reflection on his masculine pride. Not with a war on and women all over the country working in ways they’d never done before. Why, there were women in the Army, on the trams, delivering the post, in factories doing men’s jobs.

  It was a job in a factory on which the woman had set her eye, making munitions. You could earn as much as four quid a week, three times as much as Billy. And as she said to him, ‘Any minute now, you’ll be called up. What am I supposed to do then? Sit at home, twiddling me thumbs, living on the pittance I’ll get from the Army?’

  His face had paled. He was a coward, not like his brother John, who’d volunteered when war broke out, but had been turned down because he was in a reserved occupation. John was a centre lathe turner, Billy a labourer. There was nothing essential about his menial job. John, anxious to make a contribution towards the war, had become a fire-watcher. Billy carried on as usual and haunted the pubs waiting for his call-up papers from the Army to land on the mat.

  She’d only been in the munitions factory a fortnight, packing shells. It was hard work, but she liked it. If she felt tired, she thought about the pay packet she’d get on Friday, about the things she’d buy, and soon perked up. Then she discovered she was up the stick, pregnant and, stupid idiot that she was, she told the woman who worked beside her and next minute everyone knew, including the foreman, and she’d got the push.

  ‘This is not the sort of job suitable for a woman in the family way,’ the foreman said.

  The woman glared through the glass at her baby. She hadn’t thought what to call him. She wasn’t interested. Billy wanted Maurice for some reason if they had a boy, but she had no idea if Maurice was a saint’s name. Catholics were expected to call their kids after saints. Alice’s girls had funny Irish names and she didn’t know if they were saints either. The new kid would be called Cormac. ‘No “k” at the end,’ John had said, smiling. He humoured his silly, dreamy wife something rotten.

  Where was Cormac? There were cards pinned to the foot of each cot with drawing pins. ‘LACEY (1)’ it said on the cot directly in front of her. Her own baby was ‘LACEY (2)’. Alice had yet to see her little son. It had been a difficult birth and she’d been in agony the whole way through. John had been close to tears when he’d had to go home. Afterwards, with seven stitches and blind with pain, Alice had been given something to make her sleep.

  Her own confinement had been painless – she wouldn’t have dreamt of making a fuss had it been otherwise. She hadn’t needed a single stitch. Her belly still felt slightly swollen and she hurt a bit between the legs, that was all.

  Even though she didn’t give a damn about babies, the woman had to admit Cormac was a bonny lad. He had dark curly hair like his dad, and he wasn’t all red and shrivelled like the other babies. His big brown eyes were wide open and she could have sworn he was looking straight at her. She pressed her palms against the glass and something dead peculiar happened in her belly, a slow, curling shiver of anger. It wasn’t fair: Alice had the best Lacey, now she had the best son.

  From deep within the bowels of the hospital, she heard the rattle of dishes. Tea was being made, the trolley was being set. Any minute now, someone would come.

  The woman opened the door of the nursery and went in.

  Chapter 1

  1918–1919

  Olivia had only been to London once before, on her way to France, and she’d liked the busy, bustling atmosphere. But now, she hated it. She hated everyone looking happy because the war was over. Surely there must be people around who’d had relatives killed? And women who felt as empty and desolate as she did.

  There might even be women, single women, single pregnant women, who could advise her, tell her what to do, how to cope, where to go.

  Because Olivia didn’t know. She didn’t know anything except that she couldn’t look for work in her condition. She’d always planned on going straight from France to Cardiff when the fighting ended. Matron had promised to take her back at the hospital where she’d been a nurse. But she’d got off the train in London and there seemed no point in going further. Matron wouldn’t want her now. She was ashamed of feeling so helpless when, since leaving home, she’d thought of herself as strong.

  Never before had she had to think about money or somewhere to live or where the next meal would come from. The small amount of money she’d earned was more than enough to buy occasional clothes and over the years she’d managed to save a few pounds. Now, the savings had almost gone on accommodation in a small hotel in Islington. She was eking it out, eating only breakfast which, as a nurse, she knew wasn’t enough for a pregnant woman.

  Despite this, she felt well and had never had a moment’s sickness. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t suspected she was pregnant when she missed her August period. She’d thought it was because she was upset over Tom. It could happen to women; their periods ceased when they were faced with tragedy. For the same reason, she wasn’t bothered when there was still no period in September, but by October, she had started to feel thick around the waist, and the terrifying realisation dawned that she was expecting a child. At that point, her brain seemed to freeze. She became incapable of thought.

  With November came the Armistice. Olivia was glad, of course, but instead of rejoicing, she felt only despair.

  She still despaired, weeks later. New clothes were needed because she could hardly fasten the ones she had. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to go out, and the proprietor of the hotel, a woman, was looking at her oddly because she was
in her fifth month and seemed to be growing bigger by the day.

  It was strange, but she rarely thought about Tom. If it hadn’t been for the baby squirming lazily in her womb, she wondered if she would have thought of him at all. The ring he’d given her that had belonged to his grandfather was in her suitcase. It wasn’t that the memory of him hurt, but it was impossible to believe the night had actually happened. It seemed more like a dream. She couldn’t remember what he looked like or the words he’d said or the things they’d done.

  Mrs Thomas O’Hagan! She recalled whispering the words to herself the day he’d left.

  ‘What was that?’

  Olivia was eating breakfast in the dingy dining room of the hotel. She looked up to find the proprietor glaring down at her. ‘Sorry, I must have been talking to myself.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word with you, Miss Jones,’ the woman said officiously. ‘I’ll be needing your room from Saturday on. I’ve got regulars coming, salesmen.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for telling me. I’ll find somewhere else.’

  ‘Not in a respectable place you won’t,’ the woman sniffed as she went away.

  It had been bound to happen; either she’d run out of money or be asked to leave. Olivia’s thoughts were like a knot in her head as she walked towards the city centre. She preferred the noise of the traffic to the quiet streets, even if the West End clatter was horrendous. There were homes for women in her condition. They were terrible places, so she’d heard, but better than wandering the streets, penniless. But how did you find where they were? Who did you ask?

  If only she didn’t feel so cold! Specks of ice were being blown crazily about by the bitter wind. She turned up the collar of her thin coat, pulled her felt hat further down on her head, but felt no warmer.

  On Oxford Street, one of Selfridge’s windows had a display of warm, tweed coats, very smart. Olivia stopped and eyed them longingly. Even if she’d been working, they would have been way beyond her means, but she hadn’t enough to buy a coat for a quarter of the price from a cheaper shop.

  She could, however, afford a cup of tea. She made her way towards Lyons’ Corner House, noting all the shops were decorated for Christmas – only a few weeks away – and trying not to think where she would be when it came.

  A large black car driven by a man in uniform drew alongside the pavement in front of her. Two young women got out the back, wrapped in furs, silk stockings gleaming. Their matching handbags, gloves and shoes were black suede. They swept across the pavement into a jeweller’s shop in a cloud of fragrant scent.

  Olivia had always been perfectly content to be a nurse, earning a pittance. She’d never envied other women their clothes or their position in life. But now, standing shivering outside the jeweller’s, watching the two expensively-dressed women seat themselves in front of a counter, the assistant bow obsequiously, a feeling of hot, raw jealousy seared through her body. At the same moment, the baby inside her decided to deliver its first lusty kick.

  ‘Are you all right, darlin’?’

  A man had stopped and was looking at her with concern as she bent double clutching her stomach with both arms.

  ‘I’m all right, thanks.’ She forced herself upright.

  He nodded at her bulging stomach. ‘You’d be best at home in a nice warm bed.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She appreciated his kindness. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so kind if he knew that beneath her summer gloves she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  She recovered enough to make her way to Lyons. As she drank the tea, Olivia realised with a sinking heart that there was only one way out of her predicament. She would have to ask her parents for help.

  She couldn’t just turn up, not in her condition. Mr and Mrs Daffydd Jones could never hold up their heads in public again if it got out that their unmarried daughter was having a baby. Her father was a town councillor, her mother given to good works which she carried out with a stern, disapproving expression on her cold features. Olivia, an only child, was already in disgrace. There’d been a row when she gave up her job in the local library to take up nursing in Cardiff, and an even bigger one when she announced her decision to nurse in France. She daren’t go near the place where she was born, let alone the house in which she’d lived.

  A letter would have to be sent, throwing herself on their mercy, and it would have to be sent today, so there would be time for a reply before Saturday when she left the hotel.

  The tea finished, she searched the side streets for a shop that sold inexpensive stationery, then went to the Post Office and wrote to her mother and father, explaining her plight. She didn’t plead or try to invoke their sympathy. She knew her parents well. They would either help, or they wouldn’t, no matter how the letter was framed.

  The reply came on Friday morning. She recognised her father’s writing on the envelope. Although he wrote neatly, he had managed to make the ‘Miss’ look as if it might be ‘Mrs’ – or the other way round. The proprietor didn’t look impressed when she handed the letter over. It crossed Olivia’s mind that she could have bought a brass wedding ring and signed the register as Mrs O’Hagan, claiming to be a widow if anyone asked, but she’d been so confused it hadn’t crossed her mind. Still, all it would have avoided was the indignity of, in effect, being thrown out. She would have had to leave in another few days when she came to the end of her savings.

  The envelope contained a rail ticket and a curt note.

  ‘Catch the 6.30 train from Paddington Station to Bristol on Saturday night. I will meet you. Father.’

  Bristol wasn’t far from where she’d lived in Wales. Relief was mixed with a sense of sadness as she re-read her father’s note. No ‘Dear Olivia.’ He hadn’t signed ‘Love, Father’.

  At least now she was leaving she could treat herself to a decent meal with what was left of the money.

  Her father was waiting under the clock at Temple Meads station, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, glowering. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, a big, broad-shouldered man, in an ankle-length tweed overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat that made him look rather louche, though he would have been horrified had he realised. His coat hung open, revealing a pinstriped waistcoat and a gold watch and chain.

  There was something forbidding about the way he waited, as if his thoughts were very dark. Olivia had always been frightened of him, although he’d never laid a hand on her, either in anger or affection.

  He nodded grimly at her approach and had the grace to take her suitcase. He made no attempt to kiss the daughter he hadn’t seen for two and a half years. Even if she hadn’t been returning home under a cloud, Olivia wouldn’t have found this surprising.

  She followed him outside and he stowed the case in the boot of the little Ford Eight car that was the only thing she’d known him show fondness for. He would pat it lovingly when it had completed a journey and murmur, ‘Clever little thing!’

  ‘Where’s Mother?’ Olivia asked as they drove out of the station.

  ‘Home,’ he said brusquely.

  There was a long silence. The gaslit streets of Bristol were mainly deserted at such a late hour. They passed a few pubs that had recently emptied and where customers still hung noisily around outside.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Olivia asked when the silence began to grate. She wondered if she was being taken to a home for fallen women. It would be horrid, but she’d put herself in a position where she had no choice.

  ‘A Mrs Cookson, who lives near the docks, will look after you until … until your time comes.’ His voice was grudging. ‘It’s most unlikely anyone we know will visit the area, but I would be obliged if you would stay indoors during daylight hours in case you’re recognised. Mrs Cookson has been given money to buy you the appropriate garments. You’ll be comfortable there. When everything is over, you will leave. I’ll make arrangements for the child to be taken care of, if that is your wish. If you decide to keep it, don’t expect your mother and me to help. We n
ever want to see you again.’

  Although she’d had no wish to see them, either, the bluntness of his words upset her. They made her feel dirty. She opened her mouth to tell him about Tom, but before she could say a word, her father said tonelessly, ‘You’re disgusting.’

  She didn’t speak to him again, nor he to her. Shortly afterwards, he turned into a little street of terraced houses, and stopped outside the end one. He got out, leaving the engine running, and knocked on the door.

  It was opened by a gaunt woman in her fifties with hennaed hair and a vivid crimson mouth. She had on a scarlet satin dress and a black stole. Long jet earrings dangled on to her shoulders and she wore a three-strand necklace to match. Her long fingers were full of rings – if the stones were real, she must be worth a fortune, Olivia thought.

  Her father grunted an introduction, almost threw his daughter’s suitcase into the hall, and left. The Ford was already in motion by the time Mrs Cookson closed the door. She folded her arms and looked Olivia up and down.

  ‘Well, who’s been a naughty girl?’ she said archly.

  Olivia couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled. She’d been expecting to be treated like a wanton woman over the next few months and, although Mrs Cookson wasn’t quite her cup of tea, it was a pleasant surprise to be greeted with a joke.

  ‘Come along, dearie,’ the woman seized her arm, winking lewdly. ‘Come and tell us all about it. Would you like a cuppa? Or something stronger? I’ve got some nice cherry wine. I’m about to have a bottle of milk stout, myself. Oh, and by the way, call me Madge.’

  Maureen Lee’s award-winning novels have earned her many fans. Her recent novel, The Leaving of Liverpool, was a Sunday Times top 10 bestseller. Maureen was born in Bootle and now lives in Colchester. Find out more at: www.maureenlee.co.uk.

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  MAUREEN LEE

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