Lights Out Liverpool Page 17

  Mrs Bingham emerged, fully dressed. As she rooted in her capacious bag for her purse, she smiled at Jessica. ‘That’s a pretty pendant you’re wearing. What is it, mother of pearl and marcasite?’

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t very expensive. My husband bought it for me in Paris on our honeymoon.’ All Jessica’s good jewellery had been sold to help pay their debts.

  ‘Paris!’ Impressed, Mrs Bingham leaned across and examined the pendant closely. Then she handed Jessica a pound note. ‘Nineteen and eleven, isn’t it? Oh, I tell you what, to save going through this again in a few months’ time, I’ll take two pairs.’

  Jessica took the second proffered note and rang up 39/10d on the till, crowing inwardly. A whole shilling in commission, and she hadn’t lifted a finger!

  ‘Paris, eh!’ Mrs Bingham said thoughtfully. She regarded Jessica critically, taking in her fashionable, expensive clothes. The woman was obviously down on her luck, otherwise she wouldn’t be working here, but even so, she was outstanding in her way, and someone who’d been to Paris would be quite a catch to show off to her friends – and she’d probably be grateful for some civilised company. ‘Perhaps you and your hubby would like to come to dinner one evening?’ she suggested.

  ‘It’s kind of you to ask,’ murmured Jessica politely, sensing she was being patronised, ‘but I’m afraid my hubby is far too busy at the moment. He has business meetings every night of the week.’ Two years ago, the Lord Mayor of Liverpool himself had been sick in the downstairs toilet in Calderstones, so she was less than impressed with the wife of a mere Town Clerk.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ Mrs Bingham said, clearly disappointed. ‘Maybe you could come one morning for coffee?’

  ‘That would be lovely, but as you can see, I work mornings.’ Jessica did her best to look apologetic.

  ‘Y’can always take the morning off,’ chipped in Veronica, anxious to please the wife of the Town Clerk, even if her assistant wasn’t.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly leave you to cope on your own right before Christmas, not with your veins the way they are,’ Jessica said virtuously. ‘Perhaps after the holiday …’

  She bestowed a brilliant smile upon the somewhat bemused Mrs Bingham, who left with the uneasy feeling that she’d just been heartily snubbed by a part-time shop assistant.

  ‘Arthur,’ Jess began the minute he set foot in the house. ‘Why don’t you get a job as a teacher?’

  She was entirely devoid of guile, thought Arthur Fleming. Any other woman would have left it until he’d finished his meal, waiting for the right moment before broaching a particularly sensitive subject. But not Jess. She plunged in tactlessly, because she had no regard for other people’s feelings. His, in particular.

  He didn’t answer, but hung his overcoat and scarf in the hall, knowing she was hanging on tenterhooks for his answer.

  ‘Because I don’t want to,’ he replied eventually. He sat in front of the blazing fire and opened his copy of The Times, knowing full well she wouldn’t be satisfied with his answer. The argument could go on all night, or at least until he went out to the King’s Arms.

  ‘But Arthur, I only thought about it today, teachers earn quite high salaries. Not so much as we were used to, of course, but far more than you get now. We could move to Crosby or Southport. We could possibly afford a car.’

  ‘I’m quite happy where I am,’ he said contentedly, pretending to read the paper. ‘I like this house and I like my job. I like the folks in Bootle. They’re friendly and unpretentious.’ Although this was true, the contented air was put on. Inwardly, he was fuming. So, she’d ‘only thought about it today!’ In other words, she’d entirely forgotten he had a degree. Archaeology had been his passion as a boy and going to university the culmination of a lifelong dream. He’d visualised a life spent roaming the ancient sites of Greece and Italy and Egypt, earning his living from writing articles and books. Instead, he’d met glorious Jessica Hennessy, impetuous and totally selfish, who’d captured him, heart, body and soul – she still had him clutched somewhat painfully in her long white avaricious fingers – and, somehow, he’d ended up in charge of a transport company he was incapable of running. He had no head for business and had never claimed otherwise. He’d tried to tell her father that, and later, Jess herself. Neither was interested. It didn’t cross their minds that he might want to do something else – archaeology, for instance! For twenty unhappy years, he’d tried to cope. It wasn’t so bad whilst Bert Hennessy remained in charge. Arthur had merely done as he was told. Then Bert died and the old drivers, loyal to the firm, had carried him for a while, but most were near retirement age. They left, new drivers came, and Arthur was on his own. Failure became inevitable. Over all that time, Jessica had remained indifferent to his misery – no, not indifferent, Jess wasn’t an unkind woman, ‘unaware’ described it better – too busy climbing up and up the social ladder to notice how much he despised her worthless aspirations.

  ‘But Arthur …’ she began again, accusing him of not giving two hoots for her happiness.

  ‘Did you ever give two hoots for mine?’

  She stared at him, nonplussed. ‘I always assumed you were happy.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘Well, no, but …’ She paused.

  ‘But what?’ he demanded.

  ‘You never said anything,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘I did, actually. It’s just that you affected not to hear.’

  ‘But what was there to be unhappy about, Arthur? We were well off. We could afford to buy anything we wanted.’

  Arthur shrugged and didn’t answer, wondering if she would ever understand that money wasn’t everything. That being able to ‘buy anything you wanted’ wasn’t the be-all and end-all of existence.

  He watched his wife covertly over the newspaper. She was biting her lip and staring into the fire, as if she’d found their recent exchange perplexing. He could sense her frustration and sympathised. This was the first time she was reliant on him for financial support. He knew he was being awkward over the teaching, but didn’t care. Perhaps it would make her understand how he’d felt all those years. Of course he could take up teaching! It was one of the first options he’d considered when the business went for a burton, along with any self-confidence he still had, but he didn’t feel up to the responsibility, not yet. There’d be plenty of time for that in the future. For the moment, he liked driving a lorry and being told what to do and where to go and given a wage at the end of the week, without having to take a single decision of his own accord. It was the first time since he’d left university that he had a sense of self-respect and worth. He was happy! Of course, he would have liked Jess to be happy, too, but he couldn’t change her personality, make her see that there were more important things to life than the acquisition of material goods.

  He watched her still over the paper. He had to give it to her, she’d taken their reversal of fortune much better than he would have expected, revealing an unexpected strength of character. Another woman might have walked out and left him to clear the mess up on his own, but not Jess. She’d ranted and raved, called him weak – which, he conceded, he was when it came to business – but she’d stood by him and hadn’t shed a single tear. She’d seen the bank manager, sorted out their finances, then gone out and got herself a job, determined to bring the house up to the standard she considered she deserved. Out of sheer perversity, he kept back most of his wages. Looking at her now, leaning with one elbow on the table, pouting slightly and plucking at her red curls, he felt a twinge of conscience and wondered if he should let her have more. She could no more help being selfish and insensitive than she could help looking like a model for one of Rembrandt’s most glorious paintings. Perhaps if he approached it tactfully, he could offer something towards the alterations she so desired without letting her think she’d won a victory over him.

  ‘To change the subject,’ he said conversationally, ‘I thought you were planning on getting a new stove?’

&nb
sp; Of course, Jess spoiled things straight away by saying irritably, ‘I thought men were supposed to take those sort of decisions.’

  ‘That’s news to me,’ he replied, managing a grin. ‘If I remember rightly, you bought everything for our old house. I don’t recall my opinion being called for.’

  He’d come home and find a major new item of furniture or kitchen appliance, bought without any reference to him. Of course, it was her money, but he would have liked to have been asked for his views.

  ‘You never showed any interest.’

  ‘I might, if asked,’ he said lightly. ‘Anyway, about the stove …?’

  Her smooth white brow puckered in a frown. ‘I’m in a bit of a quandary,’ she explained passionately. ‘I’d like the wiring done before I buy a stove because I want an electric one, but that means the whole house will need redecorating afterwards, and I want decent wallpaper this time, not that horrid distemper. And while it’s being decorated, I may as well have a new fireplace put in at the same time, I haven’t saved up enough yet,’ she finished breathlessly.

  It was obvious, from the intense way she spoke, that her mind was consumed with alterations to the house. The world might be at war, ships were being sunk, the daily news offered little hope for peace, but all Jess could think about was wallpaper and wiring and stoves. And it was all ‘I’. ‘I want’, ‘I need’, never ‘we’. Nevertheless, he felt sorry for her. ‘How much have you got?’ he asked.

  ‘Just over twenty-five pounds, with the money off my musquash,’ she answered, adding proudly, ‘I earned over two shillings in commission today.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he said approvingly.

  She looked at him sharply. ‘Are you being funny, Arthur?’

  ‘Of course not!’ he assured her, though it was funny when you thought about it. A few months ago, she would have tipped a waiter two shillings without a second thought. ‘Perhaps I could put a bit to it,’ he offered. ‘Say ten bob a week.’

  ‘Ten shillings,’ she corrected automatically.

  ‘Ten shillings, then.’

  ‘That would be awfully nice of you, Arthur.’ She smiled at him for the first time in months.

  Later on, she got out a notebook and began to do calculations, and he left for the King’s Arms.

  It was a strange thing, he thought, entering to a welcome chorus of ‘Evening, Arthur, what are y’drinking?’ but the poor were far more generous than the rich. He’d noticed straight away, how no-one tried to get out of paying when it was their turn for a round. The poor had their pride. Some would sit with a single pint all night, rather than be termed a scrounger. Even if pressed, they’d refuse a drink if they couldn’t buy one back.

  He ordered a pint of Guinness and Paddy O’Hara said, ‘That’ll put lead in your pencil, Arthur,’ which, he thought, was the last thing he needed at the moment. Jess had slept in a separate room for months. There was no way he’d force her, but he missed her warm body desperately, though even in bed relations had grown colder over the years. He recalled the passionate love-making of their Paris honeymoon, the creamy voluptuous body yielding to his slightest touch, her little cries of ecstasy. It was a long time since they’d made love with such natural, unreserved pleasure. Instead, he got the impression she was merely doing her wifely duty, that’s if she hadn’t cried off with a headache first!

  Going home, he wondered hopefully if the extra ten shillings might have patched things up a little and she’d be waiting for him in the double bed where she properly belonged, but when he got in, she was already fast asleep in the back bedroom.

  ‘Perhaps I should have made it a pound,’ he thought wryly.

  Eileen Costello hated being on the afternoon shift. She saw hardly anything of Tony, just half an hour in the mornings before he went to school. After he’d gone, the time seemed to fly by and before she knew it, it was one o’clock and she was due to leave to catch the bus to Dunnings. When she got home, Tony was fast asleep – Annie waited until he dropped off before going home to bed herself. Eileen would listen to the wireless for a while or read a book, feeling the day had been most unsatisfactory. She was therefore relieved when the week drew to a close and she could look forward to the early shift again.

  On Monday, the younger women compared notes on the various dances and parties they’d been to that weekend. Pauline and Doris had been to a dance at the Rialto, where they’d met a couple of French sailors.

  ‘My chap kept saying, “wee”, so I thought he had the runs or something,’ Doris complained. ‘I kept showing him where the men’s lavvy was, but it turned out “wee” is French for “yes”.’

  There was a screech of laughter and Doris went on, ‘Trouble was, later on, I said “wee” in the wrong place after he took me home. He had his hand up me skirt like a bleeding shot, and there was me, screaming, “Non, non, non”, all over the street, till me dad came out and told him to bugger off back to France.’

  ‘What happened with your one, Pauline?’ Eileen asked, fascinated by their goings-on. She’d never been to a proper dance, and regretted having missed out on what seemed a uniquely enjoyable experience.

  ‘Oh, he was all right,’ Pauline sighed. ‘He was satisfied with a good old snog. I enjoyed meself, I suppose.’

  ‘Why don’t y’come with us one Saturday, Eileen?’ Doris suggested. ‘Since the war began, dances are really the gear. With all the servicemen around, there’s always far more fellers than girls, and they’re queuing up to ask for a dance and pleading to take you home.’

  ‘I’ve got a husband in the army, Doris. I couldn’t possibly let anyone take me home!’ Eileen replied, pretending to be shocked. She’d given the girls no hint of her domestic situation.

  ‘Get away with you, girl! While the cat’s away, the mice do play, that’s what they say, don’t they? Have a good old time, Eileen, while he’s gone,’ Doris advised sagely. ‘As long as you keep your hand on your half-penny, you’ll be all right.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ laughed Eileen.

  Later on, at lunchtime, one of the girls asked, ‘Aren’t you going outside today, Eileen?’

  ‘It’s too cold,’ she said, and wondered if Nick Stephens would be there, waiting, in his corduroy suit and funny fisherman’s hat. She’d thought about him a lot last week, but still stuck to the decision made that Sunday in Southport not to see him again. It wasn’t just that the feelings she had were so disturbing and she was a married woman – at least a sort of married woman, who’d yet to work out in her muddled brain exactly what her position was, but Nick Stephens was a scientist from London, someone who ordered groceries over the telephone, and she couldn’t for the life of her see what they had in common. It was nothing to do with class. No daughter of Jack Doyle would consider herself worth more, or less, than anybody else. Eileen Costello was as good as the Queen of England. Even so, there had to be a meeting point somewhere between two people, and there was none between her and Nick Stephens.

  She didn’t go out the following day, either, but thought about him, and wished there was a window she could peep through to see if he was there.

  On Wednesday morning, during the tea break, something occurred which the girls talked about for days. The foreman came in, grinning from ear to ear for a change, and carrying a large bouquet of red roses wrapped in cellophane. He was greeted by a chorus of catcalls and Lil began to sing, ‘Here Comes the Bride …’

  ‘Aye aye, Alfie! Getting married are you? Who’s the lucky feller?’

  ‘D’you want me to give you away, Alfie?’

  ‘Bagsy me the first night, Alfie. I’ll show you a thing or two.’

  The foreman came up to Eileen and laid the flowers on her lathe. ‘Someone left these for you at the front desk.’

  ‘For me!’ She knew immediately who’d sent them. There was no need to read the white card tucked inside the big red satin bow.

  ‘Eileen’s got a secret admirer!’

  The girls crowded round, eyes shining with curiosit
y.

  ‘Get away, youse lot,’ Eileen said, embarrassed.

  ‘Who are they from?’

  Eileen plucked the card out of the bow, curious herself to know what it said. The message was written in a large untidy scrawl. Where are you? N.

  ‘Who’s “N”?’ demanded Doris, reading over Eileen’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s Neville. Neville Chamberlain’s got a crush on Eileen Costello!’

  Carmel was counting the roses. ‘Two dozen. They must have cost a fortune. You’re a dark horse, Eileen. C’mon, who sent them?’

  ‘I’m not telling you.’ If she so much as dropped a hint, the entire workshop would go out for a look after dinner. Despite their repeated demands, she flatly refused to reveal the identity of the sender.

  Fortunately, no-one seemed to notice at dinner-time when she slipped away after a half-eaten meal.

  Nick was sitting on the bank directly opposite the canteen door, waiting for her, his large dark eyes dancing with merriment. He was hatless, and his fishing rod was on the ground behind him.

  Eileen sat on her side and regarded him thoughtfully. The fluttering sensation had returned to her stomach. ‘You’re a bloody idiot,’ she said eventually.

  ‘How about, “Thank you for the flowers, Nick”?’ he prompted, grinning broadly.

  ‘Thank you for the flowers, Nick. But you’re still a bloody idiot. You’ve got the girls going wild in there, wondering who they’re from. I’m a married woman, you know, and I’ve got me reputation to consider.’