by Maureen Lee
They arrived just before half past one and refused anything to eat or drink. Although they introduced themselves, they didn’t shake her hand. Eileen had expected them to be in their forties, but they looked much older; in their fifties, or even early sixties.
Theo, seven months old by now, was produced, a healthy, active baby with an adorable smile. He looked as much like his mother as he looked like Nick.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ She held the baby out to Mrs Mallory, who shook her head. Her hair was almost completely grey and she wore a beaver coney fur coat and a hat with a black veil.
‘No thank you. I just wanted to see him, that’s all.’
Eileen looked at Mr Mallory, who had not even sat down, but he also shook his head, saying, ‘We wanted to make sure he was being looked after properly.’
‘I can assure you that he is,’ Eileen said levelly.
‘Do you not feel the least resentment that he is your husband’s child by another woman?’ Mrs Mallory asked curiously.
‘How could anyone possibly feel resentment towards a baby? The circumstances of Theo’s birth are hardly his fault.’
Mr Mallory spoke. ‘Not all people think that way. Some schools, good ones, require a birth certificate; friends and neighbours ask questions. It’s easy for someone to become persona non grata, as it were.’
‘I see.’ She understood. Even in her own working-class world, an illegitimate baby could end up having a hard time as he or she grew up. She was absolutely certain she could protect Theo from that sort of unpleasantness, even if it meant moving house.
‘She … Doria,’ for the first time Mrs Mallory’s expressionless face bore the suggestion of a smile, ‘had a teddy bear called Theobald when she was a child. He still sits in her wardrobe to this very day.’
‘Would you mind sending him to me? At some time in the future I can tell Theo it once belonged to his mother.’
Eileen could have kicked herself when the woman looked as if she might cry. Until then, she and her husband had given the impression that they didn’t give a damn about Theo, but maybe she was wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘We’ll send it.’ Mr Mallory helped his wife to her feet and she smoothed her skirt and touched her hat as if it had gone askew. ‘It’s only sitting in the wardrobe. We will also send a monthly cheque towards Theo’s care.’
‘There’s no need,’ Eileen assured him.
‘It’s what my wife and I would prefer.’
‘As you wish. Would you like me to send photographs over the years?’
‘No thank you.’
As they were walking towards the gate, Mrs Mallory turned. ‘Tell me, Mrs Stephens, where is your husband now?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. I haven’t seen him since the Christmas before last.’
‘That’s the last time we saw him too.’
Mr Mallory closed the gate behind him and Eileen shut the door. The couple had been in the house for less than half an hour. She would never see them again.
The war was undoubtedly being won. In March, the advancing Allied armies, led by General Montgomery, joined hands in Germany with the Russians coming from the east and the Americans from the west. In the Pacific, islands captured by the Japanese were slowly being liberated.
Despite this, V-2 rockets continued to fall on London, one landing in the middle of Smithfield Market killing more than a hundred souls and injuring even more.
To lift the nation’s heart a tiny bit, dim lighting was introduced, a milder form of blackout, meaning the headlights on vehicles became slightly brighter and ugly blackout curtains could be taken down, usually accompanied by clouds of dust and dead insects.
At the end of March, Eileen held what she fully anticipated would be the final garden party of the war. Strangely enough, she felt little enthusiasm for it. Nor, it seemed, did those who’d helped since the first party five years before. It would appear there was little left for people to get rid of. The white elephant stall was virtually empty, people having run out of rubbish to give away; no one felt like embroidering a tray cloth or making scarves or gloves for the handicraft stall, in particular Brenda Mahon, who vowed never to knit another scarf for as long as she lived. Not a single toy was contributed; only a few cakes appeared, and very little home-made jam.
People came, though. They came in their dozens to sit and drink tea and talk, comparing dates, assessing headlines, making predictions. It would be over by mid-April, by the end of April; no, it would be May. Could it possibly go on until June?
And what about the other war, the one the Brits had taken little part in, the war with Japan? When would that come to an end so that the brave Americans could go home to their families?
Once that had happened, the entire world would be at peace again. And afterwards, who in their right mind would ever want to start another war?
Friends and family remained at the cottage until it was almost dusk and the sky was a pink blush, gradually growing darker. Cider had been brought in jugs from a nearby pub.
Jack Doyle watched Jess, who was clearly several months pregnant. I am responsible for that, he thought proudly and with the most enormous grin. He’d best not drink any more cider, else he might be tempted to make a public announcement.
Jessica saw his glances and wished that her life had gone differently and she’d been married to Jack all this time and had half a dozen kids. But although she’d been born in Pearl Street, it had never been her destiny to stay. She needed more out of life. She needed what she was about to have, a life in New York with her American husband and all that that could offer.
Sheila Reilly kept counting her children, making sure all seven were present and safe. Calum had promised that when the war was over they would have another baby. She was a woman born to have babies; the more the merrier as far as she was concerned.
I’m drinking too much, Brenda told herself as she finished off her second glass of cider. Oh, but it’s such a lovely feeling. It makes me want to sing me head off. Next week, she would make herself a frock out of that bright red taffeta stuff she’d seen in Scottie Road market the other Saturday. And dresses for the girls out of the same stuff. They’d wear them at the street party that the women of Pearl Street had already planned to celebrate the end of the war.
Perched on a tree at the bottom of the garden, Sheila’s son and Brenda’s daughter were sitting side by side.
‘Where will we live when we’re married, Dom?’ Monica asked her future husband.
‘In Pearl Street, where else?’ Dominic said. ‘We’ll get a house next to your mam, or mine. I don’t mind.’
Brenda couldn’t resist it. She jumped to her feet and began to sing: ‘There’ll be bluebirds over …’
Everyone joined in immediately, as if they’d been waiting to do it all night, standing and singing full throttle, ‘Tomorrow, just you wait and see …’
Their voices could be heard for miles and miles, getting fainter and fainter until a point was reached where nothing could be heard at all.
It had happened!
It was over!
On 1 May, Hitler had killed himself and his girlfriend, Eva Braun.
The following day, it was announced on the BBC that the Germans still fighting in Italy had surrendered, and later that day that Berlin had fallen.
Even so, peace had not been officially declared. People who had a wireless sat crouching over it waiting for news. In shops, offices and factories, on the stroke of every hour a crowd would gather around the set, only to be disappointed when the headline was about something humdrum and without interest.
Eventually it was announced that the following day, Tuesday, would be designated as VE Day, and Wednesday 9 May would be a national holiday for the entire country to celebrate the end of the bloodiest war that Europe had ever known.
When Eileen woke up early on Wednesday morning, the sun was already shining and the telephone was ringing. Sh
e leapt out of bed and ran downstairs.
‘Hello,’ she said breathlessly. She usually gave the number, but today she couldn’t remember what it was.
‘Eileen?’
She recognised the voice immediately. After all, she’d been married to its owner for more than four years. ‘Nick?’
‘I shall be coming back sometime today, quite late, I should imagine. About seven o’clock or eight.’ He spoke pleasantly, but not fondly. He didn’t sound over the moon or as if he’d missed her terribly since they’d last met.
‘I look forward to seeing you,’ Eileen said in a similar tone; not cold, but not exactly warm, either.
‘See you later, then. Cheerio.’
‘Ta-ra, Nick.’ But he had rung off and didn’t hear her response.
Eileen stared at the receiver in her hand and wondered what on earth had got into her once loving husband.
As he came out of the telephone box on Norwich station, Nick Stephens wondered the same thing. That had been a bit abrupt on his part, hadn’t it? He would apologise to Eileen when they met.
For the past year, he’d scarcely been part of the human race, had hardly spoken to anyone other than Clarence and Mary Baines. He’d actually lost the art of conversation. Even the pub where he and Clarence occasionally went was full of grumpy old men whose main interest seemed to be smoking their evil-smelling pipes.
He was finding it hard to connect with the atmosphere of gaiety and even merriment present in the other would-be travellers on the station and, he discovered, on the train to London after he’d boarded and it was on its way.
Instead of the carriage being full of people apparently determined not to speak to anyone else, as was usually the way with the English, these passengers seemed unable to stop talking to each other, describing exactly where they’d been and what they’d been doing when they’d heard the news that the war was over at last, followed by their reaction to it. Nor were they dressed in the manner of the normal London-bound commuter, but wore sports jackets, flannels and check shirts.
Nick remembered that today was a national holiday, and it turned out that his fellow travellers were on their way to share the day with their brother in Ipswich or their friends in Colchester, or going all the way to London to see their ‘jolly old mum and dad’, as one man put it.
‘And where were you, young man, when you heard that the whole ghastly business had finally been done with?’ he was asked by a chap sitting opposite, a florid individual in a green tweed suit.
‘About to have a bath,’ Nick said abruptly, which caused some merriment, though he couldn’t think why. At Windward Ho, Clarence had worn down the batteries on the wireless for days, listening to every word.
Just now, Nick was feeling rather uncomfortable with himself. He’d always been a sociable man, with plenty of friends. He supposed a person was bound to change if they cut themselves off from the world as he had done. And he would become even more unsociable once he returned to Windward Ho and married Mary. There would be no need to mix with anyone except Clarence and his daughter, which would suit him fine. He had proposed to Mary the other night while they were making love with the sound of the rippling tide in the background, anticipating a future of unalloyed tranquillity.
But first he had to see Eileen, ask for a divorce and tell her that the cottage would always belong to her. Oh, and say goodbye to Nicky. Doria would have given birth to his other child months ago – he didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl – and would be in Wimbledon with her parents, but he wouldn’t bother going there. A letter would do.
In Pearl Street, the children’s party was already half over by mid-afternoon. The rows of tables on each side of the street were full of crumbs and spilt lemonade. The cakes were yet to come. The mothers couldn’t help but compare today with the last time they had thrown such a big, lavish party in the street.
‘It was when Mary and Joey Flaherty were leaving for Canada,’ Brenda said. ‘Our Monica and Muriel were only half the size they are now.’ She and her girls wore identical scarlet taffeta frocks with loads of frills that she’d made herself. They looked too old for the girls and too young for their mother, but nobody cared. It was too wonderful a day to mind about piffling little things like clothes.
Gladys Tutty remembered the other party well – Eileen Costello, as she was then, had knocked on her door and invited Freda and Dicky to the party. She cringed, recalling the state the house and her kids had been in those days. Everything and everyone dead filthy, and she’d probably been as drunk as a lord on top.
There was no denying that as far as the Tuttys were concerned, the war had turned out to be a good thing. The kids had been evacuated to some dead posh house in Southport and it had been an entirely different Freda who’d come back, determined to change their lives.
And there she was, her Freda, across the street, talking to some new woman who’d just moved in. Nearly seventeen and as pretty as a picture. When she left Seafield Convent next year, she was going – Gladys could hardly believe it was true – to Cambridge University to study English! Her heart began to pound so loud and fast at the sheer enormity of it that she feared she might faint.
‘I bet you’re proud, Gladys.’ It was the red-haired woman, Jessica, whose dad had lived in the end house and been a rag-and-bone man. ‘Freda is a credit to you.’
‘No, she’s a credit to herself,’ Gladys said. She felt pretty sure that once Freda got as far as Cambridge University, she and Dicky wouldn’t see much of her any more, but she didn’t care.
Using the last of virtually everything in their larder, someone had made dozens of fairy cakes and, as an act of sheer rebellion, had iced every single one. It was to be assumed that icing sugar was still banned, so every person who ate a cake, including the children, was breaking the law.
Bunting criss-crossed the street, fluttering in the soft breeze, the sun shone brilliantly, balloons floated in the air, flags hung from the windows, blackout curtains had disappeared. Everyone, young and old, felt mad with happiness and excitement.
Women appeared with trays of jelly and custard sprinkled with some very old hundreds and thousands, a packet of which had been found at the back of someone’s cupboard. The children leapt up and grabbed them with joy.
The window of Jessica’s house was wide open and a gramophone was playing ‘You Were Never Lovelier’. It was being sung by a man with a voice like melting chocolate. A few couples had started to dance.
Eileen remembered dancing with Nick to the same song. It was the weekend they’d spent in London. What was he up to? she wondered. Why else would he be coming back now the war was over if it wasn’t for good? And would she take him back? Of course she would, no matter what he’d done, because she loved him and always would.
Lena Newton listened to the song. It was so romantic. She and Maurice had never danced, so she had no idea what it must be like, the feeling of having a man’s arms around you in that particular way.
She had been talking to a man at work a few weeks ago. ‘What are you going to do after the war?’ he’d asked. ‘You were posted here, weren’t you? You don’t belong in Liverpool.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it.’ She had supposed that she would stay on in Liverpool, but on reflection, there was nothing here for her except Godfrey, her cat, and a few friends. She had no real ties.
‘What are you going to do?’ she’d asked the man.
‘Me and the wife intend emigrating to Australia,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s a new country, very different from here, loads of space, different climate. It’ll be a big change as well as a challenge.’
Emigrating! She’d never heard the word before. And she quite fancied a change and a challenge. Her first thought was of Godfrey, but she knew Brenda would be willing to have him.
The man advised her to write to the Australian Embassy in London and ask them to send information as well as the appropriate forms. ‘That’s what I did,’ he said, adding with a grin, ‘You never know
, Mrs Newton, one of these days we might catch up with one another on the other side of the world.’
Lena had received the forms and filled them in, and was now waiting for an answer. She had told no one about her plans.
As it began to grow dark, the lamplighter came and the gas lights flickered on for the first time in almost six years. A great cheer went up.
‘When the lights go on again,’ they sang, ‘all over the world.’
The King’s Arms was full to overflowing. Some customers were forced to sit outside on the pavement, but they didn’t mind. Nobody minded anything; the war was over and nothing else mattered.
Jack Doyle came and gave a short speech, saying how stupid war was and promising personally that there would never be another.
Someone suggested they all meet again at the turn of the century. ‘It’s going to be called Millennium Eve.’
‘We’ll all be dead by then,’ someone laughed.
‘I won’t.’ It was Sean Doyle speaking. ‘I’ll only be seventy-seven.’
The same person laughed again. ‘Only! ’
When Eileen noticed how late it was, she realised it was time she went home. She didn’t want Nick coming back to an empty cottage. She left Nicky and Theo with Brenda and said she would come back for them early tomorrow. She told no one why she was leaving, just kissed everyone in sight and returned to Melling.
Nick was on the train from Euston to Liverpool. At some time or other, the uniqueness of the day had come to him: that this was the sort of day when you did talk to strangers. Chances were he would never experience another day like this in his lifetime.