The Seven Streets of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  Nick opened his eyes. ‘I’m fine,’ he said stoutly. ‘Absolutely fine. Do you mind if we go in a minute?’

  ‘Not at all, darling. I’ll just fetch my coat.’

  The fair-haired man who’d been watching Nick from across the room saw them leave. He was concerned that several hours had passed without Doria, his sister, noticing he was there. She must have entirely forgotten that it was he who’d invited her to the damn party in the first place. He had not been introduced to her new boyfriend. It was obvious she was so besotted with the chap that normal civilised behaviour was quite beyond her.

  Despite her young age, Doria had ‘been around’, to put it bluntly, though she’d never been serious about a chap until now. It was common knowledge that Nick Stephens had a wife and child back in Liverpool. The man might be a hero, but he was also a bit of a scoundrel it would seem.

  Pierce Mallory, known to everyone except his mother as Peter, had been turned down for active service due to having broken both legs in a riding accident when he was fourteen. He too worked in an office in London, and saw his sister frequently, or he had done until recently, when Nick Stephens had come into her life. Peter hoped he wasn’t being priggish by not liking the idea of Nick, a married man, and Doria becoming a ‘pair’. He knew that it was the sort of behaviour people indulged in in wartime, but now that one of these people was his baby sister, he decided that he’d had enough of it. It should be easy enough to acquire Stephens’s address in Liverpool and have a word with the wife, who was being made a fool of virtually every single day.

  Lena put her heart and soul into making the doll for Eileen Stephens’s garden party. Brenda Mahon had let her have her pick of the small oddments of material kept in a box in her sewing room. Lena had chosen nothing but white satin. It was going to be a bride doll!

  She made the doll itself out of old stockings stuffed with sawdust acquired from the landlord of the King’s Arms. She cut a little circle of white cloth and on it very carefully embroidered eyes, nose and a little red mouth, then attached lengths of brown wool over the scalp to make hair.

  The long dress had puffed sleeves and a frilly neck. Lena spent ages embroidering white flowers around the hem. She made white satin shoes tied with a white bow. There wasn’t a veil to be had, so she made a bonnet instead, and a little white cloak. She even managed to fashion a bouquet of sorts out of knots of embroidery silk that looked like flowers with green stems.

  The day before the party, Lena laid the finished doll on the table. She would have loved to have had such a doll when she was small. Eileen would be thrilled to bits, she just knew it.

  Chapter 4

  The men who were fighting the war, often in horrendous conditions, would sometimes complain that the population at home, the ones they were fighting it for, seemed to have forgotten all about them. In the early days they only had to enter a pub in uniform to have drinks thrust at them from every direction. Now they weren’t even noticed. Instead they were met with complaints about having to live in such a state of extreme austerity. People were hungry (only the most basic foods were available in the shops); they were cold (there was a shortage of every single type of fuel). How were they supposed to cook without saucepans? Had anyone seen a saucepan or a kettle on sale in recent years? And with the house cold due to lack of fuel, it would have been nice to go to bed under an eiderdown, but eiderdowns (and blankets) had disappeared off the face of the earth, along with everything electric, every sort of make-up, hairclips, hairnets, hot-water bottles and most children’s toys. As for alarm clocks, there had never been more of a need for these, what with people working shifts that started at all different times of the day and night. Their unavailability could only be the fault of a government that had servants to wake them up when necessary and had no idea what an alarm clock was.

  It was the shortage of so many ordinary things that made the garden party held this year on Easter Saturday in Eileen Stephens’s garden at first glance resemble a scrap yard rather than an ordinary village event. There was a reasonable amount of mouth-watering home-made cakes and jam, bottled fruit and jars of chutney. But the main focus of attention was the white elephant stall, for which people had raided their attics and sheds, discovering the odd stone hot-water bottle, pairs of rusty shears, bits and pieces of cutlery that urgently required a good polish, odds and ends of dishes, some cracked. There was even a battered old alarm clock that looked as if it had been thrown against a wall more than once.

  Items that would once have been chucked away without a second thought had become valuable beyond belief. It no longer mattered if cutlery and crockery didn’t match. The rusty shears could always be sharpened; the hot-water bottle hopefully wouldn’t leak; the alarm clock could be mended, or at least used as an ornament to remind its new owner what alarm clocks used to look like in days gone by. Nearly everything was sold for a good price within the first few minutes.

  The second-hand clothes stall received equal attention from women looking for garments that, even if they didn’t fit, could be remodelled into something else, or knitted items that could be undone, the wool washed and knitted again. Curtains that would normally have been torn up for dusters sold extremely well.

  The raffle prizes were laid out on a pasting table: a single lemon, a bottle of Drene shampoo, a tin of Fry’s cocoa, a dartboard with Hitler’s backside the target, a fruit cake and, sitting proudly in the middle, Lena’s doll. Brenda Mahon was selling the tickets.

  It was a reasonably nice day for April. A bit breezy, a bit cold, the sun in and out by the minute, but it was the first outdoor event of the year, a prelude to the summer that lay ahead. There was even a bee buzzing around to prove it. Music came from an open window – Eileen had been loaned some classical records, and a fine baritone voice sang ‘La donna è mobile’ and ‘Toréador’ and other well-known operatic airs. The atmosphere was uplifting, making everyone there feel convinced that the war could actually be won that very weekend.

  In the small tent where tea was being served, people chatted gaily, unaware that any minute now the tea would run out and from then on there’d only be Camp coffee or lemonade made from the fizzy powder that cost tuppence an ounce in the sweet shop. In an even smaller tent, Madame Nirvana, who normally worked as a barmaid in the local pub, told fortunes at threepence a time, predicting the most hilarious futures.

  Eileen and Sheila were in the kitchen making more sandwiches and discussing the doll, having ensured that Lena was safely outside manning the book stall.

  ‘Everybody’s making fun of it,’ Sheila said. ‘I mean, the poor thing is as ugly as sin and its face is all wrong. It squints.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Eileen wanted to laugh, but it would have been cruel.

  ‘What shall we do? I was talking about it with Brenda. The prizes aren’t rated, like first or second. If you have a winning ticket you can pick anything you like. She’s worried the doll might be the last thing to be chosen and Lena will be really upset. She did go to an awful lot of trouble with it. I know that if I won, I’d prefer virtually everything else on offer before I’d choose that awful doll.’ She narrowed her eyes and her voice throbbed with passion. ‘I’d kill for the lemon,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘We’ll just have to cheat,’ Eileen announced.

  ‘How?’ Sheila looked at her sister in amazement. ‘I’m not nearly as nice or as honest as you, sis, but I’ve no idea how to cheat in a raffle.’

  ‘Make sure someone we know buys a ticket – they can’t all be sold yet – then put a safety pin in the half that goes in the box with the counterfoils. I’ll pick the winner, seeing as it’s my garden party. I’ll just have to root around till I find the one with the pin in. We can’t get me dad to win it, he’s far too honest, and Brenda’s selling the tickets so it’ll look as if something funny’s going on if she wins the first time. Ask the vicar to come in, and I’ll sort it out with him.’

  ‘You’re a bloody crook at heart, Eileen Stephens,’ Sheila said adm
iringly. ‘And you’ve corrupted the vicar an’ all. You’d never have managed that with a Catholic priest.’

  Most people went home at tea time, but Eileen’s family and friends stayed to tidy up the garden, then sat and chatted about the day. Tea had become available again, and the remains of the food was eaten.

  As soon as the local pub was open, Jack Doyle went and bought a jug of cider. A rather nice young man, very handsome, with thick fair hair, who’d been one of the first to arrive at the event, was still there and went with Jack for a supply of proper lemonade for the kids. His clothes were well cut and obviously expensive: a hairy green sports jacket, flannels and an open-necked shirt. His heavy brogue shoes looked hand-made.

  ‘What’s your name and what are you doing here?’ Sheila asked when the two men returned. She had three children, including the baby, asleep on her knee, and another lying on her feet. Dominic and Niall had gone on some adventure of their own and Caitlin had disappeared too. Brenda seized the lemonade and took it into the kitchen to pour it out.

  ‘I’m Peter Wood,’ the young man said. ‘I came up from London to see my old uncle Jimmy, who I’d been told was at death’s door, only to find he’s gone to North Wales for the weekend with his bowls club.’

  ‘And where does your uncle live?’

  Peter Wood waved vaguely somewhere behind him. ‘Not far from the post office. The last train to London doesn’t leave Lime Street until five past ten, so I thought I’d spend a few hours in the countryside for a change.’ He treated them to a winning smile. ‘I’m glad I did, otherwise I would have missed your party.’ He turned to Eileen. ‘Is it a party or is it a fete?’ he enquired.

  ‘It’s a garden party.’

  ‘It was very enjoyable – and I think I might have acquired a working alarm clock. It was worthwhile coming just for that.’ He patted his bulging pocket. ‘I also won a bottle of shampoo that my sister will appreciate.’

  ‘Lucky old you,’ Sheila said. ‘You must pop in and see our Eileen if you come back to visit your uncle. If you come on a Sunday, I’ll probably be here.’ She might be madly in love with Calum, but it didn’t stop her from appreciating other attractive men who happened to be around.

  Peter Mallory (years ago he’d gone to school with a Peter Wood) agreed that he might well visit Eileen again. He’d been planning to pretend to miss the connection from Kirkby to Lime Street, spend the night in a pub somewhere and turn up tomorrow, Sunday, but had overheard Eileen tell her father that Nick was expected home in the afternoon.

  ‘He’s overwhelmed with work,’ she had said, which Peter knew was a lie, not, he felt sure, on Eileen’s part, but on the part of her lousy unfaithful husband. Nick Stephens and Doria had gone to Brighton for the day. Peter hoped it had rained and they’d had a perfectly horrid time. He hadn’t realised the pair didn’t intend to spend the entire Easter weekend together. Perhaps Stephens had a conscience after all, and realised he should spare a little time for his wife and son.

  Peter was enjoying his visit. It wasn’t often he mixed with the working classes, and this Liverpudlian crowd had really charmed him. They were called Scousers, he recalled, because they ate so much scouse stew, though he himself had never tried it. Jack Doyle, the paterfamilias, as it were, was the salt of the earth. A docker, he was an expert on the war and all the nuances that surrounded it, though they’d had quite a heated argument about Joseph Stalin. Jack seemed to think the chap a great liberating hero, whereas Peter considered him little better than Hitler, just fortunately on the side of the Allies.

  The weather had been more or less decent, and it also wasn’t often that he sat outside and experienced the end of the day. With British Double Summer Time in place, darkness was late in coming. By midsummer it could still be light at midnight.

  The most important thing was that Peter was in love, had been from the first moment he had set eyes on Eileen Stephens and Nicky, her little son. Okay, so she was married and the child wasn’t his, but he felt convinced that fate had ordained them to be together for always. What Nick Stephens saw in Peter’s empty-headed little sister compared to his own beautiful wife, Peter had no idea.

  He could never, ever hurt Eileen by telling her about her husband’s reprehensible behaviour, though he hoped that she would find out one day. When that time came, he would ensure that he was on hand to comfort her – and Nicky.

  Chapter 5

  Lena had left the garden party at the same time as most of the other guests, even though Brenda had suggested she stay behind and have a cup of tea.

  ‘That way we can all go home together,’ she’d said.

  ‘Sorry, but I’m meeting someone later,’ Lena had replied. She hoped she hadn’t sounded as miserable as she felt. It had been impossible not to notice the hilarity that her lovely doll had been met with. People had pointed it out to each other and burst out laughing. She had expected when the raffle took place for not a single person to choose it, for it to be left there, ugly and unwanted.

  It had been a big relief when the vicar had been the first raffle winner and had picked Lena’s doll. He had actually given it a hug and kissed it, and everyone had cheered.

  Once home, Lena made tea and wondered what she would do with herself tonight; she hadn’t expected to be home so early. With Sheila and Brenda still in Melling, there was no one else that she could call on.

  The furniture in the flat felt strangely oppressive, as if it was about to fall down on top of her. She supposed the only thing to do was go to the pictures. Although she loved the pictures, it seemed a bit pathetic to go so often on her own. In Birmingham, she’d had a friend, Enid, to go with. Enid’s husband was in the army.

  She went into the kitchen, where she washed her face, combed her hair and looked at her reflection in the mirror on the windowsill. How nice it would be to be pretty, or really talented like Brenda Mahon with her dressmaking. She had grown up used to being plain and not particularly clever at anything, though she was quite a fast typist and good at shorthand. As she continued to stare in the mirror, becoming more and more miserable, she was relieved to hear a knock on the door. At least it was someone to talk to, even if for only a few minutes.

  George Ransome was outside. He removed his hat when she opened the door. ‘I wondered if you were going to the Palace tonight?’ he said with a smile. The Palace was the picture house in Marsh Lane, only a short walk away.

  ‘Well, I was thinking about it,’ Lena conceded.

  ‘It’s that picture about American politics. It’s had wonderful reviews.’

  ‘I know, Mr Smith Goes to Washington, with James Stewart. I saw it in the Echo last night.’ She’d also read an article about it in the News of the World.

  ‘Jean Arthur’s in it too.’ He rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. ‘She’s my favourite actress. Claudette Colbert is a close second.’

  ‘I like them too. And James Stewart.’

  He shuffled his feet. ‘I just wondered,’ he said casually, ‘if it would be a good idea if we went to see it together. We’ve noticed each other coming out and walking home a few times now, and it seems silly, like, us living in the same street and going to the pics on our own. What harm would it be us doing it together?’

  ‘I’m married,’ Lena said simply.

  ‘Yes, but we’d only be going to the pics. There’d be no funny business.’

  ‘I should hope not!’

  ‘We’d be going as friends,’ he said cheerily. ‘Good friends.’

  Lena chewed her lip. ‘I’d have to pay for myself,’ she said eventually.

  ‘That’s no problem, Mrs Newton.’

  ‘And you must always call me Mrs Newton, not Lena.’

  ‘That’s all right by me, and I will always be Mr Ransome to you.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Lena nodded fiercely. ‘If you’d like to wait outside a minute, I’ll just go and get my things together.’

  ‘I won’t move from the spot, Mrs Newton.’

  Lena went u
pstairs to fetch her best coat. She’d asked Brenda about George Ransome after the first time he’d spoken to her on the way home from the pictures.

  He was a bachelor, Brenda had explained. She supposed he was about fifty. ‘Before the war, every Sat’day night without fail, he’d have these dead rowdy parties lasting all night long. Christ knows what went on in there, but the noise had to be heard to be believed.’

  Lena felt herself flush. ‘Oh my goodness!’

  ‘When the war started, he was too old to be called up, but he was sent to work for the censorship department in Aintree, not far from here. He takes it very seriously,’ she said gravely, ‘and the parties stopped. He became an air-raid warden too. It was George who found Francis Costello and little Tony when the house they were in was hit by a bomb. Both of ’em were killed, poor sods. Poor Eileen, she was devastated, and George has never been the same since.’

  Brenda had folded her arms, crossed her legs and said thoughtfully, ‘Me, I lost interest in men when Xavier went and married another woman down in London – became a bigamist, would you believe – but if I should ever get interested in men again, I wouldn’t mind having a go at George Ransome. His moustache makes him look a bit like Clark Gable, only thinner. If he asked me out, I’d go like a shot.’

  Mr Smith Goes to Washington was really inspiring. After it was over, Lena wondered aloud that it was possible for women to go into politics.

  ‘Would you do it?’ George asked. ‘Go into politics, that is?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake don’t be so ridiculous.’ Lena laughed.

  ‘There’s a few women in the British Parliament,’ he informed her. ‘There’s Ellen Wilkinson, Jennie Lee and Lady Astor – that’s three. There’s probably more, but I can’t remember their names.’