Lights Out Liverpool Page 15

  She found an empty table for two at the extreme edge of the circle, close to a twelve-foot-high Christmas tree decorated with coloured lights. After a while a waitress approached for her order.

  ‘A pot of tea for one, please.’

  ‘Anything else?’ The girl looked at her, pencil poised.

  ‘A buttered scone,’ Eileen said recklessly. Most of the customers were eating, and after all, she’d got paid on Friday and had more money at her disposal than she’d ever had in her life before.

  She leaned back in the chair and lit a cigarette, drinking in the atmosphere and listening to the carols, feeling a million miles from Pearl Street.

  ‘Penny for them!’

  She came down to earth with a start. A young man, no more than eighteen, had sat in the empty chair and was smiling at her warmly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said stiffly.

  ‘I said, penny for them. You looked as if you were miles away.’

  ‘I was.’ And I would have liked to stay there, she thought resentfully.

  ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’

  She frowned at him, unsure if he genuinely knew her or was just trying to pick her up – though it seemed unlikely he would try that with someone so much older than himself. She was forced to concede he was very prepossessing, with smooth olive skin and the loveliest eyes she’d ever seen, large and brown and liquid, with thick tangled lashes that most women would give their eye-teeth for. His hair was a tousled mop of black curls. He might have been considered handsome, had his nose not been too large and slightly crooked. His wide mouth twitched, as if he found her frowning stare amusing.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said eventually, feeling at a disadvantage and not wanting to be rude, but not wanting to give him encouragement if this was just a complicated way of picking her up. ‘You’d better give me a clue,’ she added in a deliberately cold voice.

  He laughed and the laugh, the way his eyes lit up and his mouth curled, was so infectious, that Eileen had trouble not laughing back. He said, in a slow, deep voice, ‘Melling!’

  ‘Oh,’ she said in relief. ‘You work at Dunnings. I’ve never noticed you. Mind you, it was me first week, and I hardly noticed anyone much.’

  He shook his head, clearly enjoying himself, and his enjoyment was so obvious Eileen began to smile. She looked at him again, but there was nothing familiar about his face.

  The waitress arrived with her tea and scone. The young man said, ‘Can I have a coffee and the biggest squashiest cream cake you’ve got?’

  ‘I won’t be a moment, sir.’

  ‘Whew! It’s hot in here.’ He began to remove his heavy belted tweed overcoat. Underneath, he wore a baggy brown corduroy suit which Eileen recognised immediately.

  ‘The fisherman!’ she cried.

  His face lit up like a beacon in a storm. ‘Got it!’ He thrust out a long brown hand. ‘Nicolas Stephanopoulos, more commonly known as Nick Stephens. How do you do?’

  She shook it. His grasp was firm and she winced. ‘I’m Eileen Costello.’

  ‘Ah!’ he grinned. ‘You’re Oirish.’

  ‘Me mam and dad both came from Northern Ireland, as well as me husband, but I’ve never been there meself.’

  ‘My grandparents originated from Greece. I’ve never been there, either. Mother insisted on shortening the name after she got married. According to her, it was a frightful bore spelling Stephanopoulos out over the telephone when she wanted to order something from the grocer.’

  ‘I reckon it must have been,’ Eileen agreed sympathetically, though she’d never even been in a room with a telephone, let alone used one.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said dryly, ‘she didn’t use either name for long. As soon as my father died, she remarried. Both she and my stepfather did a quick exit to the States the minute war seemed imminent.’

  ‘I expect you miss them.’

  ‘Not really,’ he replied, somewhat enigmatically.

  Eileen decided to change the subject. ‘What are you doing in Melling?’ she asked. ‘Are you just there for the fishing?’

  ‘Of course not, I work in …’ He stopped and his eyes twinkled. ‘I’m sorry, was that a joke?’

  ‘Obviously not a very funny one, but yes, it was. You’ll never catch more than a tiddler in that stream. Anything bigger couldn’t get its head under the water.’

  ‘I’m afraid elements of Greek tragedy must still flow through my veins, despite the fact I’m as British as you are. I’m always the last person to catch onto a joke,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘I would never have guessed it. You look as if you find everything dead funny.’

  ‘Only sometimes,’ he answered, adding surprisingly: ‘I have my dark side. Sometimes the world seems anything but funny, though you cheered me up somewhat last week. You looked so graceful with your ugly overalls and long fair hair, kneeling on the bank and dipping your face in the water like a mermaid.’

  She felt embarrassed. It was such a lovely, unusual compliment and she reminded herself he was little more than a child, not much older than Sean, her brother. ‘I didn’t think you’d noticed me.’ He hadn’t acknowledged her presence once.

  ‘I was watching you around the corner of my hat,’ he said, grinning. ‘Next week, I’ll wave.’

  ‘I won’t be there next week,’ she told him. ‘I’m on the late shift.’

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said shyly.

  Their eyes met and, for some reason she couldn’t define, Eileen felt slightly uncomfortable. ‘You were about to tell me where you worked,’ she prompted.

  ‘The Royal Ordnance Factory at Kirkby. I’m on permanent night shift. I’m at my best during the midnight hours.’

  The waitress arrived with his order and he bit into the cake enthusiastically, the way Tony would have done, and the cream spurted out onto his face. ‘This is scrumptious!’ he said between mouthfuls.

  Eileen watched him indulgently like a mother. ‘You’re making a right old mess,’ she remarked as she poured a second cup of tea.

  ‘Aren’t I just?’ The cake finished, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and Eileen tut-tutted in disapproval. ‘Haven’t you got a hankie?’

  ‘I have to wash the hankies. I can get the jacket dry cleaned, which is much easier.’

  ‘You look after yourself then?’

  ‘Yes. I rent a cottage in Melling, although I could have had a room in a hostel. I prefer being alone.’

  He was a bundle of contradictions, thought Eileen. Cheerfully extrovert one minute, talking about his dark side and wanting to be alone the next.

  ‘You don’t come from round here?’

  ‘No, London. I’m in a reserved occupation, much to my disgust. The entire laboratory was transferred to Kirkby.’

  ‘Laboratory! What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a scientist.’

  Her jaw dropped. She’d never met a scientist before. ‘You look awful young for that.’

  ‘I’m twenty-four.’

  Twenty-four! Eileen had no idea why this news should affect her so deeply, but it did. Till then, she’d thought of him as an engaging boy with an attractive, almost irresistible personality. But knowing she was only two years his senior seemed to put him in a different light altogether. To her utter astonishment, there was a strange, pleasurable sensation in the pit of her stomach, as if butterflies had begun to flutter their wings wildly. It was something she’d never experienced before.

  ‘Where is your husband?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I’m surprised he lets you out alone. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.’

  The butterflies went frantic. Eileen replied in what she hoped was a steady voice, ‘Me husband’s in the army.’

  ‘Ah! That explains it.’ His eyes met hers. ‘And do you miss him?’

  Eileen hesitated. ‘Of course I do.’ But even as she spoke she knew the hesitation had given her away. If she really had missed Francis, she would have answered immediately and with
far more enthusiasm.

  ‘I see.’ He gave a little smile, and Eileen knew he saw too much. ‘Do you have any children, Eileen?’

  ‘I have a little boy, Tony. He’s five. Lord! I’ll have to go.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall above his head, though she was too confused to take in the time. Once again, she became aware of the music and the fact they were in a crowded restaurant in an arcade in Southport, all of which she seemed to have forgotten whilst they’d been talking. She reached for the bill, but he grabbed it first.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ he said despite her protests. To her dismay, he began putting on his overcoat. ‘Where are you off to now?’ he asked.

  She explained about the Tuttys. ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the directions to Sunhill Road.’

  ‘I’ve got a map outside. I’ll give you a lift.’

  Despite the fact a lift would be more than welcome, she would have preferred him to leave. In view of the pleasant sensation which still persisted in her stomach, it seemed wise to get rid of him as soon as possible. She decided, somewhat regretfully, that her visits to the little stream must stop until next summer, when the other girls would be with her. In the meantime, it was difficult to refuse his offer of a lift without being hurtful. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  It had begun to rain outside. She put her umbrella up and they walked without speaking past a line of cars parked alongside the pavement. ‘Here she is,’ he said eventually.

  ‘She’ turned out to be a motorbike and sidecar. Eileen couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. ‘I don’t know why, but I wouldn’t have expected you to have a car like ordinary people.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m extraordinary?’ He raised his eyebrows and began to strap on a leather helmet and a pair of goggles. She laughed again.

  ‘In that hat you are. You look like Flash Gordon.’

  ‘Well, you look like Greta Garbo in yours. Come on, get in. I take it you don’t want to sit on the back?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Still laughing, she folded herself into the sidecar and he slid the roof across. It was like being inside a large bullet and she felt very close to the ground. Through the scratched perspex window, she saw Nick unfold a map and study it. He made the thumbs up sign, drew on a massive pair of leather gauntlets, and set off.

  The journey seemed to take no time at all. Five minutes later, the motorbike drew up outside a pleasant detached house with a vast, lush garden full of mature trees and bushes. Eileen pulled the roof back and began to struggle out, whilst Nick dismounted and came around to help. She found herself being uplifted bodily by a pair of strong lean arms and placed on the pavement.

  ‘There!’ he said. ‘I’d wait and take you home, but there isn’t enough room for you and a couple of children.’

  ‘You don’t know where I live. It’s miles away.’

  His next words almost took her breath away. ‘I’d take you if you lived on the other side of the moon,’ he said simply.

  She tried to make a joke. ‘Well, being Flash Gordon, I suppose you know the moon well. Thank you for the lift, Nick. Tara.’

  ‘Goodbye, Eileen. I’ll see you a week tomorrow.’

  She began to walk up the pebbled drive, still conscious of the pressure of his arms around her waist, and deliberately didn’t turn and wave when the motorbike started up again. The feelings he evoked in her were strange and rather frightening – and dangerous! As far as she was concerned, that was the last time she’d have anything to do with Nick Stephens!

  Eileen paused in front of the oak panelled, highly polished door to read Gladys’s letter from the Billeting Officer. She’d forgotten the name of the people who’d taken Freda and Dicky in. Mr & Mrs C. Waterton, she read as she pressed the bell and heard it buzz deep inside the house.

  After a while, a pretty girl of about ten, with curly, shoulder-length brown hair opened the door. She wore a red velvet dress with a lace collar, long white socks and patent leather shoes. She blinked when she saw Eileen, and regarded her unsmilingly and without speaking.

  ‘Is your mother in, luv?’

  The girl didn’t answer, and Eileen was about to repeat the question when a voice trilled, ‘Who is it, darling?’ and another girl came into the hall. This one wore a dress which was far too old for her, a trailing affair in fine patterned wool, and her wavy blonde hair was halfway down her back.

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs Waterton,’ Eileen explained.

  ‘That’s me.’ As she came closer, Eileen saw the girl was older than she first appeared. In fact, she was not a girl at all, but a woman of at least forty. ‘How can I help you?’

  Although she’d rehearsed what she was going to say several times, now the time had come Eileen found herself stammering nervously, ‘I’m, well, I’m a neighbour of Mrs Tutty, Mrs Gladys Tutty, and she’d, well, she’d like her children back.’

  The woman gave a little tinkling laugh. ‘I’m afraid that’s just not possible.’

  Eileen stood there, feeling nonplussed, and wondering what she was supposed to do next. The girl in the red dress was actually about to close the door in her face, when a man appeared, tall and balding, with a stern, unfriendly look on his thin features.

  ‘I’m Clive Waterton and I’ve been expecting something like this. You’d better come in,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t like his autocratic manner. For all the trouble she had taken with her appearance, she felt over-conscious of her secondhand coat and her Liverpool accent as she followed him and his wife and the little girl into a high-ceilinged room full of bleached wooden furniture, the sort you saw in Hollywood films.

  ‘Mrs Tutty has taken long enough to enquire about her children,’ he said cuttingly when Eileen sat down. ‘Other evacuees, who incidentally, went home weeks ago, had letters and visits right from the start.’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything,’ Eileen said reasonably. ‘If Gladys wants her children back, then she should have them whether she came to see them or not.’ The whole situation seemed profoundly mysterious. Why should people like this want to hold on to the Tuttys? And where were they, anyway?

  That question was partly answered straight away.

  ‘Freda, switch the percolator on, please. I’m sure Vivien would love a cup of coffee.’

  With a triumphant glance at Eileen’s startled face, the girl in the red dress left the room.

  Freda!

  As the door closed behind her, Mr Waterton said with a touch of irony, ‘Surprised, eh? My wife has done wonders with the children, though quite frankly, the boy might not be averse to going home. I think he misses his mother. But the girl has changed out of all recognition and she and my wife are terribly fond of each other.’

  ‘More than fond, Clive. Freda and I simply adore each other.’ Mrs Waterton made a funny little gurgling sound. ‘We’re like sisters.’

  With a sense of unease, Eileen realised the little girl-woman wasn’t quite right in the head, and she didn’t like the way her husband referred to Freda and Dicky as ‘the girl’ and ‘the boy’. She reckoned he didn’t give a damn about the children, but wanted them to stay, or at least wanted Freda to stay, in order to keep his dotty wife happy. Eileen felt she was in an impossible position. Gladys was expecting her to return with the kids, but what was she supposed to do if they didn’t want to come?

  ‘Perhaps we’d better ask Freda and Dicky what they want to do,’ she suggested. ‘I presume you don’t want to keep them against their will. I’ll go along with whatever they have to say. After all, I’ve no authority, have I? I’m just doing a favour for a neighbour.’

  The door was flung open and a sunburnt little boy burst in. His eyes lit on Eileen joyfully. ‘Our Freda said you were here. Have you come to take me back to me mam?’

  ‘If that’s what you want, Dicky?’ It must be Dicky, though the neatly dressed, healthy-looking child bore no resemblance to the boy who’d left Pearl Street last September.

 
Clive Waterton shrugged carelessly. ‘Well, you have your answer. Let’s see what his sister has to say.’

  ‘I want to stay with Vivien.’ Freda stood in the doorway, ladylike and demure. She crossed over and sat on the arm of Mrs Waterton’s chair.

  ‘That’s it, then.’ Eileen got to her feet, anxious to get away. ‘I’d better be going.’ Lord knows what Gladys would have to say when she arrived back with only half her family. It all seemed very unsatisfactory, but she was at a loss to know what else she was supposed to do.

  ‘But you must let me get Dicky’s things together first,’ Mrs Waterton trilled. ‘He can’t leave without his train set and his ration book and there’s heaps and heaps of clothes. Let’s find a little suitcase, shall we? Come on, Dicky.’

  ‘You won’t go without me?’ The little boy looked anxiously at Eileen, before allowing himself to be led out of the room. Freda followed.

  ‘Of course I won’t, luv.’

  Eileen was left alone with Mr Waterton. As soon as the door closed, he said coldly, ‘I’m a solicitor. Tell Mrs Tutty that I’ll go to court if there’s any suggestion of removing the girl. Mrs Waterton has never been so happy as since she came.’

  ‘You do whatever you please,’ Eileen said, equally coldly. ‘It’s nowt to do with me, but I don’t think Gladys is going to take this lying down, not for a moment.’

  Eileen got back to Pearl Street just as it was beginning to grow dark. Tony was playing football with his cousins. The boys came running up to her, then stopped and stared curiously at the smartly dressed child at her side. Without a word of thanks, Dicky Tutty grabbed the suitcase and ran home down the back entry.