Put Out the Fires

by Maureen Lee

  “Don’t have it too loud, now. Michael’s almost asleep.”

  “You know, Ruth,” Eileen said carefully, “it’d be far better if you just laid him down and let him go to sleep on his own. It’s not as if he’s crying. If he gets used to it, he’ll be expecting to be nursed asleep every single night.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” said Ruth.

  Next morning, Eileen began to cut back the ivy creeping over the front of the cottage. There’d been enough to keep her awake without the sound of its irritating tap-tap against the windows all night long. As she clipped the trailing leaves, she noticed how thick the dust was on the panes underneath. She’d clean them before she left.

  The gate clicked behind her, and for an awful moment she thought it might be an irate Dai Evans in search of his missing grandchild. Instead, a tall blond man with the appearance and grace of a Greek god -was coming down the path.

  “I’m not sure if I’ve found the right place.” He smiled, though she noticed the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m looking for Ruth Singerman.”

  “Just a minute.” Eileen went into the house. Ruth had actually put the baby down in his pram for once and was washing nappies in the back kitchen. “There’s someone to see you. He looks like a Hollywood film star. You’ve got me worked up into such a state, I thought it was Dai at first,” she complained.

  Ruth gasped. “Fancy him coming here! He must have met your dad last night. Where have you put him?”

  “I left him at the front. I thought I should check with you first in case it was Dai in disguise, but it seems you were expecting him. Who is he?” Eileen asked.

  “Just a man.”

  “I can see that much for meself!”

  Ruth removed her pinny and patted her hair. She picked up Michael and adjusted his shawl around his face. “I’ll speak to Matt outside.”

  Matt! As soon as Ruth closed the front door behind her, Eileen felt too overcome with curiosity to resist a peep through the lace curtains in the living room. Ruth had never mentioned anyone called Matt before.

  She rather hoped they might throw themselves into each other’s arms. Instead, they stood, facing each other, several feet apart . . .

  “He’s very handsome.” Matt nodded at the baby.

  Ruth nodded. “Very.” She cleared her throat. “That proposal you made. I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to accept, after all.”

  “That’s fine by me,” he said lightly.

  “What do we do now?”

  “I’ll find out how you go about getting a licence. It will be in a registry office, of course.”

  “Of course,” agreed Ruth.

  “I’ll need some details: your date of birth, that sort of thing.”

  “Perhaps you could come round to Pearl Street tomorrow night.” Ruth jerked her head at the cottage. “It’s a bit difficult here. Come late, after my father has gone to bed.”

  “Right.”

  There was an awkward silence. “Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Ruth. “We’ll be making dinner soon. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “No, thanks. I’d sooner be off.”

  Ruth was surprised at how disappointed she felt when he turned to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she called.

  He paused at the gate. “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter 18

  “That’s our Eileen!”

  The voice came from out of the eerie red darkness, from somewhere amongst the men queueing for their cup of hot soup. The voice throbbed with pride, as if the speaker had been almost moved to tears when he spotted her standing behind the counter of the mobile canteen which was parked outside the tall gates of the Gladstone Dock.

  “Is that you, Dad?” she called.

  “It is that, luv. Now, hurry up with that soup. Us lot have got a pang in our bellies. We’ve been working hard without a break for bloody hours.”

  There was a burst of gruff laughter from the waiting men. “So, you’re one of Jack Doyle’s girls? He’s allus on about you and your Sean.” The face of the man at the front was streaked with dirt and his eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness. It was long past midnight and the men had been working since eight o’clock the previous morning. They should have finished their shift at four, but had stayed behind to unload an urgent shipload of ammunitions which had arrived that afternoon from the United States.

  There was the smell of sweat and dust, the sound of men sighing and the shuffling of feet. The entire atmosphere was one of total exhaustion, yet Eileen knew that each and every one of them would work until they dropped.

  An air raid had finished about half an hour ago, short but brutal, as if the Luftwaffe had been keen to shed their lethal load as quickly as possible before returning home. She’d like to bet the men had ignored the raid and worked right through.

  There was the usual after-raid activity: the urgent clang of fire engines, ambulances screaming by, people shouting, and every now and then there would be the thud of an explosion and everyone would duck. The docks had been hit, as usual—those between Pier Head and Sandon had taken the brunt of the high explosive bombs that night, and the sky was its usual lurid shade of red from the fires raging below. The queue that stretched before her was a blur of tired faces, tinged pink by the distant flames. The tall black silhouettes of cranes could be seen, bending and turning as the urgent cargo continued to be unloaded.

  “Whatever me dad said, it was lies.” Eileen smiled.

  “We’re all quite nice, really.”

  “I gathered that much. Are you the one that was in the Land Army?”

  “Aye, that’s me.”

  “We heard all about the mouse in your Welly.”

  “It wasn’t my Welly,” she laughed. “It was another girl’s.

  I think I might have died if it were mine.” It was hard to imagine her dad telling these big tough dockers such trivial things out of her letters.

  Surprisingly, the man reached forward and gripped her hand quite hard. “I was sorry to hear about your little lad, luv. I lost me own grandson the same way.”

  Eileen’s face remained expressionless. “Ta,” she said briefly.

  Beside her, Mrs Hilda Barrett clapped her hands impatiently and barked, “Who’s next?”

  The, miss.” The next man meekly stepped forward for his soup and slice of bread and margarine.

  “I think this slice has been margarined both sides,” Eileen remarked.

  “I’m not surprised,” Hilda sniffed. “If the good lord had expected us to see in the pitch darkness, he would have equipped us with a torch as well as eyes.”

  It wasn’t exactly pitch dark inside the van, but almost, and the two women worked as best as they could, more by feel than sight.

  “I don’t mind.” The man took the bread, and Hilda thundered, “Next!”

  “Reporting for duty, ma’am.” The man saluted smartly, clicked his heels and winked at Eileen.

  Mrs Hilda Barrett frequently rubbed people up the wrong way with her autocratic manner. Scousers didn’t have much time for people in authority, and Hilda exuded authority in abundance. Fortunately, she had a hide like a rhinoceros and rarely noticed when she was being mocked, and if she did, she didn’t care. All Hilda Barrett wanted was to help with the war effort. “I had no intention of pussyfooting around knitting or making cakes,” she said scathingly to Eileen when they first met. “I wanted to do something I could really sink my teeth into. I took to driving the mobile canteen like a duck takes to water.”

  A widow of some sixty years, her children long married and living elsewhere, every single day of the week, she drove to Bootle from the relative safety of her lovely house by Birkdale golf course to do her stint in the WVS. Her outsize green uniform was always immaculate, the shirt starched and ironed to perfection, but for some reason, she pulled her hat down around her ears in a way that reminded Eileen of one of the Marx brothers. But beneath Hilda’s brusque sergeant-major manner and capacious bosom, there beat a heart of pure twe
nty-two-carat gold.

  Although Eileen had only joined two weeks ago, the pair had become instant friends. Before the war, neither would have found much in common other than that they were the same sex, but nowadays, class and age no longer mattered.

  Eileen had taken over from Hilda’s previous partner who, by strange coincidence, had joined the Women’s Land Army. Like Hilda, Eileen had no family commitments, no husband or children, nothing to keep her at home.

  “Aye, aye, luv.”

  Jack Doyle had reached the front of the queue.

  “Dad! I didn’t half feel embarrassed, you shouting out like that!”

  “I’m sorry, girl. It took me by surprise when I saw you, that’s all.” He nodded in her direction and said to Hilda, “You’ve got a jewel there.”

  “Dad!’Eileen blushed.

  “Every woman in the WVS is a jewel,” Hilda replied crisply. “Including me!”

  “You’re doing a fine job, the pair o’yis.”

  “I know,” said Hilda. “And so are you, particularly tonight.”

  “Aye,” Jack sighed, “but it was a wrench missing out on the May Day do at the Labour Party.” He grinned at Hilda -Jack claimed he could recognise a Conservative if he was blindfolded. “The comrades always have a drink and sing The Red Flag on the first of May to celebrate the Soviet revolution.”

  Hilda ignored him. “Next!” she bawled.

  The next man leaned on the counter. “Let’s see! I’ll have cod and chips, plenty of salt, a little sprinkling of vinegar, and a bottle of ginger ale, please.”

  “You can have bread and soup. From there on, you’ll just have to use your imagination.” Hilda allowed herself a glimmer of a smile. “NEXT!”

  “Where to now?” Eileen asked as Hilda started up the van, the dockers having been fed and returned to work. They set off with the barest glimmer of light from the masked headlights on the road in front.

  “To the nearest conflagration,” Hilda barked.

  It was almost daylight by the time Eileen returned home, and she threw herself into bed, totally worn out. Scores of firemen, Civil Defence workers and ARP personnel had been fed, as well as several battered citizens who’d been found sheltering in shop doorways or wandering round, dazed, after being bombed out of their homes.

  She lay in bed and listened to the sounds of the street waking up: Nelson’s hooves clip-clopped over the cobbles as he and Mr Harrison set off with the first load of the day, doors slammed as people left for work and she heard the rattle of bottles, heralding the arrival of the milkman. It seemed strange, going to sleep just when everyone else was getting up, but she preferred it this way. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get used to the place without Tony. Entering the house was the worst, when she kept expecting him to come running out to meet her, his cheek turned for a welcoming kiss.

  The air raid siren shrieked forth that night at a quarter past ten, and it was twenty to three by the time the All Clear sounded. During those hours, it seemed as if all hell had broken loose. The incendiaries were dropped first, lighting fires throughout the city, and providing visual markers for the heavy explosive bombs that followed by the ton. The very earth shook as explosion followed explosion and, as its people were slaughtered and its buildings and houses were blown to smithereens, the entire city of Liverpool seemed to be gripped in an orgasm of sheer bloody horror.

  Eileen and Hilda Barrett were sheltering in the cellar of a lock-up garage off Marsh Lane where the mobile canteen was parked when not in use, which was rarely. Hilda usually read a book whilst a raid was in progress, but she couldn’t read tonight.

  “I think this one’s worse than December,” she remarked.

  “Jaysus! I hope me sister’s all right,” Eileen breathed. She thought about her dad, firewatching on the docks, and Sean, recently transferred to an air base in Lincolnshire.

  Then there was Nick! “It’s crazy,” she muttered. “The world’s gone mad.”

  “And it’s all due to one man,” Hilda mused. “What a powerful personality he must have!”

  They emerged when the All Clear went and Hilda drove the van through Bootle and down to the Dock Road, providing hot drinks and a bite to eat for all who needed it.

  Eileen called on Sheila on her way home that morning, relieved to see Pearl Street still standing and not even a single window broken. Her sister came out of the back kitchen, looking tired. She flung her arms around Eileen.

  “Jaysus, sis,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve been worried sick about you all night. Have you seen our dad?”

  “There was no-one in when I called.”

  Sheila crossed herself. “I hope to God he’s all right. I scarcely slept a wink last night, nor did the kids. Our Dominic was frightened for the first time. Until now, he thought the raids were fun, but it seemed to get through to him that we might be killed. He kept asking for Cal.”

  “That’s why I’m here, sis,” Eileen said briskly. “I want you to pack your bags and get out to Melling in case there’s another bad raid tonight. You know where the key is, under the stone by the front door. Take Brenda with you.

  Even if it’s standing room only, it’s better than being a sitting target here. I’ll have a word with Ruth Singerman in a mo.”

  Sheila needed little persuading. “I’ll go as soon as we’ve had our tea, before it gets dark.”

  “I’d go sooner, if I were you. The roads are blocked and I’m not sure if there’s many buses running. As for the trains, the overhead railway’s down and Exchange Station’s been hit. You might end up having to walk most of the way.”

  Sheila looked dismayed. “I didn’t realise things were that bad! In that case, I’ll start making me way some time this morning. Anyroad, the kids love playing in that garden. Are you coming with us?”

  “No, sis, I can’t. I’ve got a job to do.”

  “You always seem to have a job to do of some sort.”

  Eileen shrugged. “That’s the way me life seems to have gone lately, all topsy-turvy. If it weren’t for Tony, I’d still be at Dunnings.”

  “Eil?”

  “Yes, luv?”

  “You’re not staying because . . . ” Sheila paused, as if unable to find the right words. “I mean, I hope you’re not staying for the same reason you stayed after Tony died.

  You never said anything, but I know you were hoping you’d be killed so you could join him . . . ”

  Eileen shook her head. “No, luv. I don’t want to be killed, not any more.” She patted her stomach. “I’ve got me little girl in here, haven’t I? And there’s Nick. One of these days we’ll sort ourselves out and be together.” She shook her head again. “No, sis. I don’t want to die now.”

  “Then why don’t you come with us?” Sheila argued.

  “I told you, I’ve got a job to do. I’ll only be taking the same risk as the thousands of other people who’ll be staying in Bootle - and Liverpool - tonight.”

  Ruth Singerman was just as anxious as Sheila to go to the cottage, having spent the night under the stairs with Michael, terrified the house was about to collapse around her ears. But she had a problem. “It’s Saturday. You’ll probably think me stupid under the circumstances, but I wonder if there’ll be a dance this afternoon? Lots of young servicemen turn up and I don’t like to let them down.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” Eileen assured her.

  “Life seems to go on, no matter what happens. People might feel more like dancing today than they’ve ever done before. The trouble is getting there.” She explained the situation regarding transport. “There’s a phone box on Marsh Lane, or at least there was until yesterday. Why don’t you ring up and find out if the dance is still on? Sheila will take Michael to Melling if it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in before I fall asleep in the middle of the street.”

  It was almost nine o’clock that night when Ruth turned up at the cottage. She was flushed, almost starry-eyed, and didn’t even ask abo
ut Michael as soon as she came in. “For the first time today, I really felt as if I was doing my bit!” she cried. “Reece’s was crowded, and everyone sang as well as danced. I had to play the last waltz half a dozen times and every time I finished, people either cried or cheered. The atmosphere was tremendous.”

  “How did you get home?” asked Sheila. “You’re terrible late.”

  “The same way as I went. I walked a bit and ran a bit. I caught a bus, until it could go no further, then caught a tram a few yards more. On the way here, a man gave me a lift from Aintree Racecourse, else I’d still be walking now.” Ruth threw herself onto the sofa. “It was all really worthwhile.” Her face changed, became grave. “But you should see the damage, Sheila. You could scarcely pass a street that hadn’t been bombed.” She sighed. “How’s Michael?”

  “Fast asleep in his pram. Me and Brenda managed to carry it upstairs. We’re short of bed space, I’m afraid, there’s so many of us here.”

  “That’s all right, then. Is there any tea going? I’ll take a look at Michael later on.”

  As Sheila filled the kettle, she reckoned hopefully that Hitler would probably leave them alone from now on. It had probably been a waste of time them coming to Melling. If so much damage had already been inflicted on Liverpool, what point was there in inflicting any more?

  She would never, if she lived to be a hundred, understand how killing little children like Tony Costello helped win a war.

  Jacob Singerman had insisted on staying in the house where he had slept for nearly fifty years, in the bed where Rebecca had died giving birth to their only daughter.

  “I’m not going,” he said stubbornly when Ruth pleaded with him to leave with Sheila. “I’d be the only man there, for one thing, it would make me look like a coward.” He chuckled. “Someone might send me a white feather.”

  “Don’t be silly, Dad. You’re over eighty years old. No one expects you to be a hero.”