by Maureen Lee
‘Have you been widowed long?’ she asked politely.
‘Oh, dearie me, I’m not a widow, more’s the pity,’ Kate said with a laugh. ‘I left my husband a long while ago. To be blunt, he’s an even more unattractive character than Francis Costello was. That’s why I found it so easy to relate to Eileen’s troubles.’ She began to chat eagerly about her eldest daughter who was in the WAAF and stationed in Chester. ‘We normally meet on Saturday afternoon if she can snatch a few hours away. This week it will have to be Sunday.’
Kate Thomas was gradually transforming in front of Jessica’s eyes, from an old maid who went to political lectures into a woman with three children and a lovely smile who’d actually had the guts to walk out on her solicitor husband. As if eager to assist in the transformation, Kate snatched off her hat and shoved it in her pocket, muttering, ‘I don’t know why I’m wearing that in here,’ revealing short, if untidy brown curls Suddenly, she looked not just nice, but pretty. Jessica began to feel alarmed, particularly when Jack Doyle appeared and put his arm around Kate’s shoulders and led her away without even noticing Jessica was there.
‘I want you to settle an argument,’ she heard him say. ‘What was Woolton’s job before he was made Minister of Food …?’
They had things in common, Jessica realised with a pang; politics, for one, whereas all she and Jack did was argue. They agreed about nothing. Still, she squared her shoulders and went in search of Penny, whom she found underneath the table in the living room, playing house with Sheila’s three girls. She had no intention of changing and pretending to be someone else just to catch Jack Doyle, no matter how much she wanted him.
At half past four, the bride having changed into a blue suit, the newly married couple left on their honeymoon, a single night in a hotel in New Brighton, a wedding present from Eileen to her little brother and his new bride. Sean’s friends were being accommodated in various houses in the area and would all return to Lincolnshire together next morning.
It was not quite dark, not quite time for the blackout, as everyone gathered outside to see Sean and Alice off. For a few precious moments, it was possible to imagine there was no such thing as a blackout as shafts of pale orange light fell across the cobbled street from the open front doors.
‘Tara, Sean. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
‘Tara, Alice.’
‘Good luck the two o’yis.’
Suddenly, the pair were gone, accompanied by a gang of other young people who were going with them on the train into town to finish off the celebrations there. Darkness fell, doors were closed, curtains drawn and everywhere fell silent. It was difficult to believe the black, empty street had been full of noisy, laughing people such a short while ago.
Inside Sheila Reilly’s house, bedlam reigned. The women were sitting in the parlour, six of them, finishing off the sherry, whilst elsewhere the children noisily ate the remainder of the food.
‘The divil’s got into our Dominic today,’ sighed Sheila. ‘There’s no controlling him. He’s infected all the other kids. They’ve all gone wild.’ Her eldest son had been responsible for all sorts of mischief ever since he’d come back from the football match almost out of his head with excitement.
‘He needs his dad,’ said Brenda Mahon.
Sheila winked. ‘So do I!’
There was a crash from the other room and everyone jumped and waited for the ensuing screams. When none came, they decided to ignore it. Jessica worried briefly about Penny, but her daughter had been kept safely under Siobhan’s wing all day, and anyway, she would never agree to stay quietly with her mother when she knew the other children were so evidently enjoying themselves elsewhere.
‘I used to love weddings and parties when I was little.’ Eileen transferred a sleepy Nicky to her other arm. ‘All you cared about was having a good time. Although I enjoyed meself today, I kept worrying about our Sean. Where on earth will they live when he’s home for good? I mean, there’s no room for a young married couple in Alice’s place in Miller’s Bridge. They’re already crammed like sardines in there.’
‘Have some more sherry, luv, and worry about it tomorrer,’ Sheila urged her sister. ‘Anyroad, me dad’s already keeping an eye out in case a house falls empty.’
‘There’ll be dozens already after it,’ Kitty Quigley warned. She’d only recently arrived and was still in her striped nurse’s uniform. ‘Accommodation’s dead scarce in Bootle with so many houses lost in the Blitz.’
‘They’ll be too much in love to notice where they’re living,’ said Kate Thomas, adding with a smile, ‘At least for a while.’
‘Who wants more sherry?’ asked Jessica.
‘Me,’ everyone chorused.
‘This is ever such a good make, Jess. Where did you get it?’ enquired Eileen. Like the others, she was beginning to look ever so slightly drunk.
‘Off Rita Mott who owns the garage. She gave me four bottles, all for nothing. She gets piles of stuff on the black market.’
‘You should have asked her to the wedding,’ said Sheila.
‘It’s a bit late to suggest that now. Anyway, your dad wouldn’t have approved. He can’t stand Rita.’
‘Talking of Jack, where is he?’ Kate Thomas demanded. ‘Where are all the men, come to that? Why is it there’s only women left?’
‘Do you realise,’ Sheila said slowly, ‘there’s six of us and not a single husband amongst us? Three are away in the forces, two have been done away with as it were, and in the case of Kitty, he hasn’t yet arrived on the scene.’
‘Xavier’s in the forces and he’s been done away with,’ Brenda said sourly.
‘Mine might have arrived on the scene,’ Kitty hiccuped. ‘I’ve got a date tonight with a sailor. In fact, I’d better go home and get washed and changed.’ She got reluctantly to her feet.
‘Keep your hand on your ha’penny this time,’ Sheila said darkly. She turned to the others. ‘She nearly came to no good on the steps of St George’s Hall last time she had a date.’
There was a full moon that night. It hung, glittering, in the navy-blue star-powdered sky as Jessica Fleming made her unsteady way home some hours later with her daughter. She wasn’t sure what time it was, but the sherry had all gone and Sheila’s house had gradually grown quiet as most of the exhausted children became sleepy.
‘It was a lovely wedding, Sheil,’ said Brenda in an unnatural, high-pitched squeak. Her two girls were fast asleep on the landing. ‘I had a lovely time.’
‘Me, too, Sheila,’ Jessica echoed. Dominic was teaching Penny how to play football with the teacosy. They were the only two left who were wide awake.
‘Me house is wrecked,’ groaned Sheila. ‘Though it’s all me own fault. I was enjoying meself too much getting pissed in the parlour.’
Kate Thomas was taking Eileen home in her car. ‘Are you sure you’re fit to drive?’ asked Jessica.
‘I drive better when I’ve had a few drinks, it gives me more confidence.’ Kate swayed slightly. ‘I’m only dangerous when I’m sober.’
Jessica gave Penny a cat’s lick of a wash and put her straight down in her cot. Despite the fact she wriggled her plump body in protest, she fell asleep the minute her head touched the pillow.
‘You’re beautiful, sweetheart,’ whispered Jessica. ‘I’m so lucky having you.’ She bent down and stroked the soft golden hair, noticing the way the slightly distorted jowels quivered with each swift intake of breath. She recalled all the weddings she’d gone to in the past when she’d been the only married woman present who was childless. No matter how well dressed she’d been, no matter how expensive the present she’d bought, she always felt inferior, second best.
She began to remove her clothes and sighed with relief when she peeled off the rubber corselette that had been digging into the top of her legs all day. She only wore it nowadays for special occasions. There were dents in her skin that felt red raw. She rubbed them, wincing painfully, and reached quickly under the pillow for h
er thick winceyette nightdress. There was no heating in the bedroom and it was freezing. Shivering, she took a final look at Penny as she put on her dressing gown and slippers.
‘If only I could have another baby!’ she said aloud. She went downstairs, removed the fireguard and knelt in front of the fire, stretching out her hands to warm them. She’d never blamed Arthur, not even in her mind, but if it hadn’t been for him she might have had half a dozen children by now, like Sheila Reilly.
‘Please God, don’t let it be too late!’
Jessica stood up, feeling warmer. She noticed in the mirror that her hair was still pinned up and removed the combs and clips to let it down. It fell onto her shoulders in waves. She was still a good-looking woman. From time to time, Rita brought one of her ‘friends’ into the workshop, and Jessica was conscious of the way they looked her up and down appreciatively. What a pity she couldn’t be like Rita and make love with any man who happened to be around! But Jessica knew there was only one man she wanted to father a second child.
Sighing, she took the kettle into the kitchen and filled it up with water. She was dying for a cup of tea. She’d just put the kettle on the hob when there was a knock on the front door and she went to answer it.
The moonlight fell like fine liquid on the street outside, illuminating everything with an unnatural, vivid clarity. Jack Doyle was standing there holding something in his hand. Perhaps it was because she was still a little drunk, but his entire body seemed to be surrounded by a narrow line of light, like a halo.
‘I was helping our Sheila tidy up a bit, and we found this behind a chair in the parlour.’
Jessica regarded him wordlessly.
‘It’s your handbag,’ he explained with a touch of impatience. ‘Sheila thought you might be worried you’d lost it.’
‘My handbag?’
‘Don’t tell me you’re drunk, too,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Our Sheila doesn’t know which way she’s going.’
‘Give it to me.’
Jessica took a step back when he handed her the bag. Before he could remove his hand, she caught it in her own. He looked at her, wide-eyed and slightly shocked.
‘No, Jess!’
Jessica didn’t answer, but began to tug him ever so gently into the house. She suspected there was nothing between him and Kate Thomas, but meeting Kate had made her realise she had to be quick, just in case …
‘Oh, no, Jess,’ Jack groaned.
Jessica placed the hand she had imprisoned on her hip and felt it rest there, comfortably, warmly. She reached for his other hand and when it was safely where it should be, her arms crept round his neck and she pulled his head down until their lips met.
‘Yes, Jack,’ she whispered after one long intoxicating kiss. He was in the hallway by now. He kicked the door shut with his heel.
Oh, yes, yes, yes!
Chapter 9
It was more like a carnival than a football match. Christmas was only five days away, the schools had broken up the day before and everyone was in the very best of spirits. Compared with the numbers present at a league game, the crowd was sparse, the Everton ground nowhere near full to capacity, but in fact there were more than a thousand people there, at least three-quarters of them boys from local schools. For some reason, many brought Union Jacks to wave. Several also brought ARP rattles which they whirled around with a tremendous clatter whenever it looked as if there might be a goal. Every able-bodied person from Pearl Street had come, and Brenda Mahon had been busy knitting blue and white striped scarves.
Sheila Reilly felt slightly overawed. She’d scarcely taken any notice of Dominic each time he’d come home and announced his team had won, and not only that, it was he who’d scored most of the goals. Yet over the last fortnight all sorts of people, including many she didn’t even know, had approached her in the street and congratulated her on having given birth to such a fine footballing son!
‘You must be very proud,’ they said.
‘Oh, yes, I am,’ Sheila assured them, wishing Cal were home. Cal would have understood, offered encouragement, spurred Dominic on, instead of ignoring him as she had done – not that he needed much encouragement, the swollen-headed little bugger. He’d been unbearable for weeks.
The other finalists were Wilson Carlyon, a private school from Ormskirk. Their red and white kits were brand new. They fitted well, having obviously been bought in different sizes for each individual player, and had the position number sewn on the back. St Joan of Arc’s kits were all the same size and fitted where they touched, if they fitted at all. A piece of paper was attached to each lad’s back with several safety pins indicating the position he was to play.
‘I wish I’d known, Sheil,’ Brenda said when the teams ran onto the pitch. ‘I would have sewn on proper numbers for them. Why do they need numbers, anyroad?’
‘I dunno,’ replied Sheila. ‘Perhaps it’s in case one of ’em gets lost.’
Wilson Carlyon were slightly older, slightly bigger and better nourished than the opposition. They were also very good. When the whistle blew for kick-off, they stormed as one man into the other half and scored a goal in the first minute.
Dominic Reilly’s brain clicked into action. He felt annoyed that he’d been taken so much by surprise. He’d already managed to identify their best player, a knobbly lad on the left wing, a good head taller than himself, with wavy hair like a girl’s. From then on, he stayed glued to his side. The trouble was, the knobbly lad had recognised Dominic as his equal and stayed glued to him. Dominic could get nowhere near the other goal with the ball. The play was lively, but neither team had much opportunity to score.
Just before half-time, Dominic saw an opening. Their side were taking a corner at the Wilson Carlyon end. Dominic rubbed his eyes, pretending to be temporarily distracted, and the knobbly lad relaxed. The ball came towards them and Dominic leapt forward and caught it between his feet. He dribbled it skilfully in and out of the players surrounding the goal, and suddenly, there he was, just him and the goalie facing each other. He drew back his foot, ready to thud the ball in low, when suddenly he felt his other foot being kicked from under him and he landed face down in the mud.
‘FOUL!’ screamed the crowd.
‘Foul!’ screamed Jimmy Quigley from the touchline.
Sister Gabriel did a maniacal Irish jig beside him. ‘Foul!’ she screeched.
But the referee had been looking the other way, and blew the whistle for half-time.
‘Never mind, boy, you did your best,’ Sister Gabriel said sympathetically when they were in the changing room. She was cleaning Dominic’s grazed and bruised ankle with cotton wool.
‘No he didn’t, none of ’em did.’ Jimmy Quigley regarded the eleven boys with utter contempt. ‘You were dead lousy, all of you, Dominic in particular. You deserve to be one down. You deserve to lose. You’ll all go home with your tails between your legs if you don’t do better in the second half.’
Sister Gabriel looked dismayed. ‘Now, now, Mr Quigley. There’s no need to speak to the boys like that.’
‘Yes there is. They played like little fairies when they should have played like men. Are you actually going to let this lot beat you?’ He glared at the team. Apart from Dominic, they all regarded him fearfully. ‘A private school, a shower of poncy little gits who think themselves too good to go to an ordinary school like you do?’
‘Please, Mr Quigley!’
‘I bet most of ’em still suck from their mammies’ titties.’
‘Mr Quigley!’ Sister Gabriel crossed herself.
‘So,’ snarled Jimmy, ‘what are you going to play like in the second half?’
‘Men,’ the boys quavered. Dominic curled his lip and said nothing.
‘Right, then. Have you had your lemonade?’
‘Yes Mr Quigley.’
‘Off you go, then, and I want to see some proper football in the second half.’
‘Yes Mr Quigley.’
‘How’s your ankle?’ asked Jimmy i
n a normal voice as Dominic ran past.
‘Not so bad.’
Jimmy had never committed a foul during his brief career as a footballer, nor had one done to him, but there came a time, and now was it, when such gentlemanly and sportsmanlike behaviour had to be put aside. As the Bible said, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ or something like that. From the side of his mouth, he hissed, ‘If you can give that effing left-winger a taste of his own medicine, don’t hesitate.’
‘I won’t,’ vowed Dominic.
The players assembled on the field, the crowd cheered, the whistle blew and Dominic immediately captured the ball. He heeled it gently behind to his left-back, and the Wilson Carlyon players poured onto St Joan of Arc’s half of the field. The knobbly lad seemed unsure whether to chase the ball or Dominic.
‘Give us it back!’ Dominic yelled.
The half-back was running around in circles with the ball. He looked only too relieved to be rid of it, and it landed with a thump at Dominic’s feet. Apart from the goalkeeper, there were just two defenders left in the opposition’s half. Dominic passed them easily. He knew, he just knew he was going to score. It was inevitable, it was an utter certainty. The goalie faced him for a second time, hopping nervously from one foot to the other. He dodged to the left when it looked as if the ball was coming that way. Dominic slammed the ball low into the right side of the net.
One all.
From then on, the knobbly lad never let Dominic get more than a couple of feet away. He was always there, nudging him, poking him, pushing him, knocking him and stamping on his feet. He even managed a few sly kicks on the already damaged ankle. ‘He’s not covering me,’ thought Dominic in a rage, ‘he’s battering me. He’s worse than a bloody German.’
The second half took on the pattern of the first, with neither team able to get close to the other’s goal. If it was still a draw when the final whistle blew, the teams would have to play extra time.
Dominic felt as if he could play all day, but he knew most of his team would be exhausted by now. Not every mam fed their kids with plates of scouse and steamed puddings the way his did. Some kids were lucky if they saw a hot meal once a week. He had to get another goal before the whistle went. He had to win. He was determined to win, not just for himself, but for his mam and dad and Mr Quigley, for Pearl Street, St Joan of Arc’s. For Bootle.