The Leaving Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  He had a childish love of Christmas, always had. Until he was twelve, he had stoutly refused to accept that Father Christmas didn’t exist. After getting Bill a scarf and Karen some very expensive perfume, he decided to treat himself to a shirt and a couple of ties. He left the shop, looked for a bar, and ordered a whiskey and soda.

  Next time he came back, he wondered, would America be shrouded in blackout the same as Britain? Would Hitler, aided by the Japs, bomb the hell out of New York as he’d done London? Washington might well be the capital, but Bobby had always looked upon New York as the hub of the world.

  Outside again, he strolled part of the way back towards his hotel. A bitter wind blew, making his eyes water. He was conscious of the bright lights in every window of every shop, the streetlights, the headlights on the stream of passing traffic. A man coming towards him paused to light a cigarette. You couldn’t even do that in London without someone yelling, ‘Put that bloody light out.’ New York without lights was impossible to imagine. There was a song in England: ‘When the lights go on again, all over the world . . . ’

  Bobby sighed and hailed a cab. Back in the hotel, he changed his suit, put on the new shirt and a tie, and made his way to 42nd Street.

  The show was a musical - he was glad; he wasn’t in the mood for anything heavy - so he shouldn’t have been all that surprised when Anne came dancing on to the stage. He caught his breath and leaned forward in his seat. Bill had got them good seats in the front stalls, so they weren’t all that far apart; except he could see her and she couldn’t see him.

  He hadn’t forgotten her, he never would, but he thought he’d gotten over her. He reminded himself that there was nothing to get over. More than a decade ago, she’d given him a couple of hamburgers and a coffee. A decade later, they’d spent a day together. Another year later, here he was, watching her dance, listening to her sing, and realizing that she was the woman for him. But hadn’t she refused to see him when he’d called to tell her he’d got the job on the paper?

  The show was about a pair of hoofers, played by Anne and a guy who appeared to be double-jointed, trying to make their names on Broadway. It was a trite story, but the songs were tuneful and the entire cast threw themselves into their parts with such blazing enthusiasm that Bobby was awed. He wondered if he should go backstage and talk to Anne when the show was over. But what was the point? She’d already made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. He was just an ordinary Joe with nothing much going for him. She was Anne Murray and could have any guy she wanted. No, he wouldn’t go backstage, at least not tonight. Perhaps another night, when he was by himself. He was in New York until after Christmas. He’d still like them to have a talk, and it would give him time to rehearse what to say. It might, just might, be possible to persuade her to change her mind.

  Jerome’s Fish Bar was on the first floor of an expensive hotel overlooking Times Square, only a short walk from 42nd Street. Bill had booked a table in a part that had windows on three sides so the gaudy lights of the square flickered on and off all around them: adverts for liquor, cars, banks, shows. Tickertape messages flashed across buildings announcing the state of the Stock Market, giving the latest news headlines, and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas.

  Ben Overton insisted on ordering a magnum of champagne. ‘While we can,’ he said darkly. He was a patrician gentleman in his seventies who wrote learned articles on every subject under the sun, though of late had concentrated on the war that had now widened to include America itself. ‘Can you get champagne in London, Bobby?’

  Bobby confessed he’d never tried. ‘Since France fell, there’s been a shortage of table wine all over the country. Spirits are hard to get and the bars over there - they call them pubs - often run out of beer.’

  Ben shuddered and said it sounded like Prohibition all over again.

  The other man present, Chay Dennis, was a good thirty years younger than Ben, and had got the job of Bill’s assistant when Bobby had turned it down. He said he understood that beer in Blighty was served without ice. ‘It sounds a heathen practice to me,’ he said.

  ‘You quickly get used to it,’ Bobby assured him.

  They ordered the food from a rather sullen waitress - back in London, she’d have been described as someone who’d ‘lost a pound and found a sixpence’ - and Bill asked Bobby if it would be possible, considering the changed circumstances, to visit France again.

  ‘Anything’s possible, Bill, but I wouldn’t like to try it now I’m one of the enemy.’ He laughed, though there was nothing funny about it. ‘If I were stopped, I’d be charged with being a spy. I’d probably be tortured and shot. If they didn’t shoot me, I’d end up in a prisoner of war camp.’

  Chay leaned across the table and said in a hushed whisper, ‘Hey, guys, see who’s just come in. Isn’t that the girl from the show, Anne Murray?’

  Everyone turned to stare, then quickly turned away when they realized how rude it looked, except Bobby whose chair was in a position where he could see the people entering the restaurant, five of them altogether. He recognized the woman in the front as Lizzie, Anne’s mother-in-law, followed by Anne in a white fur coat, and three men, one small and stout, one tall and slender with golden-blond hair and foppish good looks, and, bringing up the rear, a very tall young fellow still in his teens.

  Ben leaned forward. ‘The little tubby guy’s Ollie Blinker: he was in cahoots with Mayor Jimmy Walker. He either took backhanders or dished them out; it’s a long time ago and I can’t remember all the facts. Whatever he did, he got away with it.’

  ‘So did Jimmy Walker,’ Bill reminded him. ‘His punishment was being sent on a long holiday to Europe. Not every corrupt politician is so lucky.’

  Bobby was watching Anne remove her coat and give it to a star-struck waiter. Underneath, she wore a long black dress with narrow shoulder straps. Her skin shone like satin and he could see the colour of her marvellous eyes from here. She sat down, patted the seat beside her, and the teenager took the chair. She stroked his cheek affectionately and he flushed with pleasure.

  Could there be anything between them? The kid looked very young, but so did Anne, though she must be going on for thirty. His eyes drifted to the other people on the table. Ollie Blinker was Lizzie’s husband and the blond, good-looking guy was almost certainly Herbie. ‘We only see each other at Christmas,’ she’d told Bobby.

  ‘What do you think about it, Bobby?’ Ben asked.

  Bobby had totally lost track of the conversation. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Oh, let him be,’ Chay said jokingly. ‘He’s only got eyes for Anne Murray; hasn’t stopped looking at her since she came in. Must be love at first sight.’

  Lizzie had noticed him! She waved madly and mouthed ‘hello’. Bobby waved back. The other guys looked startled and Chay muttered, ‘What the heck!’ Then Lizzie said something to Anne, who looked across, saw him, immediately got to her feet, and came over to his table, her long dress swishing against her ankles. She wore shoes that appeared to be made entirely of diamonds on her small feet.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to see me as you promised when you got the job on the paper?’ she asked in a loud, clear voice. ‘I called the paper, but they said you’d gone abroad to England.’

  ‘But I did come to see you.’ Bobby’s foot became entangled with a leg of his chair when he tried to stand. ‘I came exactly when I promised.’

  He became aware his three companions had stopped talking and were watching the proceedings with considerable interest, as was the sullen waitress. He said to Anne, ‘Let’s get out of here.’ Taking her arm, he led her out of the restaurant, along a short corridor, and into the hotel bar. There was standing room only, but he found an empty corner, dark and private.

  For what must have been an entire minute, they stood looking at each other, neither saying a word. God! She was so beautiful, Bobby thought: strange, but beautiful. He doubted if there was another woman who would have spoken to him the way she
just had. She was completely without guile, just said what she thought, regardless of whether it was the right time or the wrong time.

  She was the first to speak. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said in a husky voice. ‘We were only together a matter of hours, but I’ve still missed you.’

  ‘I came, Anne, when I promised,’ he assured her, ‘but the guy on the desk called upstairs and said you didn’t want to see me.’

  ‘John was there, that’s why, but I expected you to come again. I only didn’t want to see you right then.’

  He didn’t try to explain that he couldn’t be expected to see into her mind and know exactly how she felt. He merely said, ‘Who’s John?’

  ‘My son. That was him sitting next to me at the table.’ Her eyes shone with pride. ‘Would you not agree that he’s the most desperately handsome young man in the entire world?’

  She’d suddenly acquired an Irish accent. ‘I would agree, yes,’ he said faintly. Her son! That great hulking youth was her son! He hadn’t thought she’d been married to Herbie long enough to have a child that old and she hadn’t mentioned having a son when they’d met before.

  ‘Oh, Bobby!’ She slid her slim arms around his neck. ‘All sorts of things have happened since we last saw each other. Apart from John, Herbie and I are divorced. Isn’t that wonderful? It was him who asked for it. He fell in love with a girl and wanted to marry her straight away. Ollie knows all about these things and arranged for us to get divorced, so Herbie got married, and now the girl wants a divorce.’ Her expression sobered. ‘Poor old Herbie, he’s awfully upset. She was only after his money.’

  He didn’t give a damn about Herbie. ‘Does that mean you’re single? I mean, you haven’t got married again, have you?’

  She giggled. ‘Of course not, silly, I’ve been waiting for you all this time. You see, I knew you would come back to me one day, I just knew.’

  Bobby gulped. ‘Does that mean if I asked you to marry me you’d say yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply, and kissed him.

  He had no idea how long they stayed in the dark corner, kissing and making plans for the future, but when they returned to the restaurant everyone had finished eating. Lizzie had appropriated Bobby’s chair and was deep in conversation with his colleagues.

  ‘Bobby and I are getting married,’ Anne announced in a voice loud enough for the entire room to hear. The other diners looked up from their food and there was a sprinkling of applause. ‘We’re getting married by special licence on Christmas Eve. Ollie will arrange it for us, won’t you, Ollie, darling? There’s nothing on earth that Ollie can’t do.’

  ‘With pleasure, Anne.’ Ollie came over and kissed her, followed by Herbie, then John. Over the next few minutes, it seemed as if the entire room was kissing or shaking hands with each other.

  ‘You take care of her now,’ John growled when he shook hands with Bobby. He didn’t exactly add, ‘or you’ll have me to answer to’, but Bobby could tell from the look on his face that the threat was there.

  ‘You’ve no need to worry,’ he assured the boy, ‘though it’ll be you who’ll be doing the caring until this crazy war is over. I’m going back to London after Christmas and your mother’s staying in New York.’

  It wouldn’t be a conventional married life, but he wasn’t marrying a conventional woman. He couldn’t imagine her making him a meal or ironing his shirts. He chuckled, remembering the way his mother used to fuss around his father, insisting he wear a scarf when it was cold, keeping his slippers warm by the fire, taking him tea in bed every morning. With Anne, it’d be him doing the fussing and taking the tea.

  It was an hour before both parties left for the Blinkers’ apartment where the celebrations would continue. Anne paused by the door, bowing graciously to the people left behind, who laughed and applauded. A man shouted, ‘Best of luck, Anne.’

  No one noticed her slip something into the hand of one of the waitresses on the way out. If they had, they would probably have wondered why she’d tipped the unpleasant, scowling one, the one who looked as if she’d sooner be anywhere else in the world rather than Jerome’s Fish Bar.

  The waitress opened her hand: a hundred-dollar bill! Anne had recognized her. Was it from the boat, or from the theatre where she’d been Flip Ungar’s girlfriend? Or was it both? For the briefest of seconds, she wanted to run after the girl and throw the bill in her face, but what good would that do? It would only mean other people would be witness to her shame and she’d be without a hundred bucks. Not that there was anything shameful about an actress waiting on tables in between parts. Trouble was, she hadn’t had much in the way of parts for nearly five years. She’d thought she’d made it when she took over Anne’s role in Roses are Red, but she’d only been riding on Flip’s coat-tails - he’d told her as much when he’d walked out and shacked up with another dancer.

  She went into the nearest bathroom and examined her thirty-four-year-old face in the gold-tinted mirror. It was unlined but, somehow, producers could tell she was no longer young. ‘You’re too old,’ she’d been told bluntly when she’d auditioned for some crummy job in the chorus.

  Her hand curled around the bill. A hundred dollars! Maybe it was about time she left New York and started again somewhere new like Hollywood. The weather would be better and she could lie on the beach and get a tan. Thirty-four wasn’t all that old. She’d ditch her American accent for a posh English one. Brits did well in Hollywood.

  There was a knock on the door and the maître d’ shouted, ‘Are you in there, Miss Raines?’ Without waiting for an answer, he went on, ‘You know staff are forbidden to use the residents’ bathrooms. You have your own downstairs.’

  Olive opened the door and resisted the urge to spit in his snooty French face. ‘I’m not staff any more,’ she said in her coldest and haughtiest voice. ‘I’m a professional actress and I’m on my way to Hollywood.’

  Mollie had arrived in Duneathly just in time for tea. ‘I’d like to go to Kildare tomorrow or the next day to get some more Christmas presents for the children,’ she said to Hazel, who was washing the dishes while she dried. ‘I’ve already got a few bits and pieces, but there’s not much of anything to be had in Liverpool - I’ve got a list of make-up as long as my arm I promised to buy for people.’ Lipstick and face powder had virtually disappeared from the shops, as had decent stockings, hairclips, and elastic.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Hazel declared. ‘I’ve bought most of me presents, but it’d be nice to have a day out and I wouldn’t mind buying a couple of brassieres. You can’t buy anything with a bit of uplift in Duneathly and me breasts have dropped down as far as me waist.’ She put a thoughtful finger to her chin. ‘I wonder if they could fit me in at Quinlan’s for a shampoo and set?’

  ‘Give them a ring first thing in the morning and see,’ Mollie suggested.

  Hazel finished the dishes, untied her apron and folded it neatly, then placed it on the back of a chair. ‘Aren’t men lucky?’ she remarked, smoothing her hands over her broad hips. ‘No one looks at Finn and thinks to themselves, “That boyo’s lost his figure, I wonder how many kids he’s had?”’ Apart from me drooping breasts, I’ve enough pleats on me belly you could make a skirt from, and me right leg’s so full of swollen veins it looks like a map of Ireland.’

  ‘I think you’re exaggerating, Hazel.’ She was as beautiful as ever, if a bit larger than on the day she’d married Finn.

  ‘Whatever.’ Hazel shrugged. ‘I’ll buy some slap too while we’re in Kildare, otherwise people’ll start taking me for Finn’s mother. There’s no need to grin, Mollie. Your Finn’s always had an eye for a pretty face. I’ve never minded him looking, but I don’t want him touching.’

  Mollie went to bed that night feeling totally at peace with the world. She was home for Christmas as she’d promised: Megan and Brodie were asleep in the bedroom on one side of her, and Joe and Tommy in the other. Tommy, of all people, had asked her to read him a bedtime story. She hoped he wasn’t miss
ing her.

  The festivities here would be very different to those in Liverpool. Garston Electrics were having a dance in the canteen on the day before Christmas Eve, she’d been invited to loads of parties, and virtually everyone she knew had asked her to Christmas dinner, but the only place where she’d wanted to be was with her family.

  Tonight, the children had put on a little concert for their parents in the parlour. Eoin had juggled three of his mother’s old plates, Sean had played the spoons, Kieran had sung ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home’ wearing a top hat he’d found in the loft, and Finola and Bernadette had recited a nursery rhyme each. Patrick must have decided he was too old to play a part and acted as master of ceremonies. At that point, he came in to announce there was now an interval and refreshments were available in the kitchen. After a jam tart and a glass of lemonade, the audience had returned to hear Joe tell a very creepy ghost story while Tom supplied sound effects by banging the dustbin lid on the floor several times. Noreen played Minuet in G on the piano for Brodie and Kerianne to dance to.

  Finally, Megan had sung ‘Danny Boy’ in a light, sweet voice, and Mollie and Finn had glanced at each other because it had been Annemarie’s favourite song and she’d sung it to Mammy when she became ill. ‘Well, if that didn’t made me feel a whole world better, I don’t know what would,’ Mammy would say when the song had finished.

  It had all been very innocent and charming, particularly when you considered the horrors taking place in other parts of the world.

  Finn had opened an office in Kildare where he spent most of his time nowadays. He asked if Hazel and Mollie wanted a lift in to do their Christmas shopping.

  ‘It depends if Hazel can get an appointment at the hairdresser’s,’ Mollie told him. ‘It’s possible we might go tomorrow. Anyway, she’d sooner see the children off to school before we leave.’ Even Bernadette, who was only four, attended the nursery class at the convent.