Lights Out Liverpool Read online

  Annie smiled ruefully. ‘I always said he looked a bit like Clark Gable, and he has the same sort of smile, a touch devilish in its way.’

  They were on the second cup of tea. Annie had urged her to ‘Get it off your chest, luv. You’ll feel the better for it.’

  Eileen nodded. ‘He has, too. When I was twenty, he asked us to marry him. I turned him down, I don’t know why. Our Sheila was married by then, and I expect I was waiting to meet someone I’d feel about the same way she felt about Cal. Francis must’ve told me dad, because he started going on about me being left on the shelf and saying I was getting on. After a while, I realised he really fancied having Francis for a son-in-law. He never liked Calum Reilly.’ In fact, her dad resented the man who’d taken his favourite daughter away from him.

  ‘In the end, I said “yes”, mainly to please me dad,’ she said simply. She leaned back in the easy chair, remembering. It hadn’t been a very difficult decision. She didn’t feel as if she were making a sacrifice, because men like Francis Costello didn’t grow on trees.

  ‘Here, you’ve let your tea go cold.’ Annie jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll fill it up for you.’

  ‘We were fine for a while,’ Eileen continued when Annie returned, the cup filled to the brim. ‘Then gradually he began to turn against us. He became dead unreasonable, criticising every little thing I did, losing his temper if he found a speck of dust or if I’d run out of something he wanted. No matter what sort of meal was waiting on the table, he’d find something wrong with it. At first, I thought it was me own fault, but in the end I decided that, right down at heart, Francis wasn’t nice at all, though he liked people to like him. He liked being popular and everyone saying what a fine chap he was, but I reckon he found it too much, having to be nice at home as well.’

  ‘Oh, Eileen, you should have told us this before,’ Annie said gently.

  Eileen shrugged. ‘It never crossed me mind to tell anybody.’ Not until this morning, when Francis left and everyone expected her to be heartbroken. Anyroad, it was too embarrassing, and even now she hadn’t told Annie the half of it. There was the way he treated Tony, picking on him all the time till the poor little lad didn’t know whether he was coming or going, though she’d stood up to him over that. But standing up to Francis only brought more misery in its wake. When particularly irked, he’d squeeze her wrist or shoulder until tears came to her eyes with the pain. She knew he’d hit her if he thought he could get away with it, but the wife of a fine man like Francis Costello couldn’t be seen with a bruised face or a black eye. After all, he had his reputation to consider.

  Eileen sighed. ‘I thought of leaving him more than once, but it would have killed me dad. I think Francis knew that …’ She stopped, realising she’d been going on for nearly an hour about her troubles, yet here was Annie not saying a word about her own.

  ‘Oh, Annie, luv, I feel terrible selfish. You’ve got ten times more to worry about than us, what with your boys already called up.’

  Annie shook her head impatiently. ‘Don’t be silly, Eileen. We’ve all got to get things off our chest once in a while and I’ve never known you moan before. As for Terry and Joe, all I can do is pray to God they’ll come to no harm, though the longer I live the more I begin to wonder if there’s a God up there, the things that happen in the world. Sometimes, I wish us were a Catholic like you. Having a faith is like having a crutch to get you through life.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Annie,’ Eileen said comfortingly. ‘Your lads’ll be all right. You’ll see.’

  ‘That’s what I just told Rosie Gregson about her Charlie. That’s what the folks outside said about Francis. Not every man’s going to come home safe and sound, Eileen,’ Annie said cynically. ‘Some of ’em are bound to die.’

  Eileen didn’t answer because there didn’t seem much to say. In her heart she knew Annie was right. There couldn’t be a war without someone’s sons or husbands or fathers being killed.

  ‘Oh, Lord, Annie, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘I know, let’s have some whisky. I could really do with a sup or two right now.’

  Vivien Waterford lay on a deckchair outside the open French windows of the drawing room, wearing her new striped bathing costume. A silk robe had recently been thrown around her white shoulders by her solicitous husband when he’d decided a slight chill had come to the soft evening air. Her usually tranquil face was creased in an unaccustomed frown as she stared down the garden.

  ‘What on earth are we going to do with them, darling?’

  Her husband, Clive, followed her worried gaze. Two ragged, filthy children were sitting on the stone bench beside the lily pond. There’d been ten waterlilies that morning. Now there were only eight, two having been plucked out and pulled to pieces by the boy, Dicky.

  ‘Beats me,’ he replied, shrugging. ‘Send ’em back, I suppose.’

  ‘But you can’t send children back,’ said Vivien reasonably. ‘I mean, it’s not as if they’re a frock or something.’

  Clive mumbled something unintelligible. He felt guilty. It was his fault they’d got these two ragamuffins. On Friday, he’d promised Vivien faithfully he would leave the office prompt at midday to collect their evacuees from the reception centre. Then something had come up and he’d completely forgotten. It wasn’t until she’d telephoned at two o’clock, wondering why he hadn’t arrived home, that he remembered and had gone racing down to the centre to find the respectable-looking children had long gone – apparently, two women had come to blows over a pair of sweet looking, nicely dressed sisters – and these two pathetic specimens of humanity with labels around their necks, who hadn’t even brought a change of clothes with them, were the only ones remaining.

  ‘But you can’t keep ’em, either,’ he said eventually. ‘I mean, they’re barely civilised.’

  Both wet the bed. There was a pile of sheets waiting for Mrs Critchley to wash in the morning. They peed in the rose bushes because using an inside toilet seemed beyond their comprehension, and their table manners were non-existent. He and Vivien had watched, him appalled, she, for some strange reason, amused, as they stuffed food into their mouths as if they’d been told it was the last meal they were going to have on earth. The first night, the girl actually had the nerve to ask for a ‘sup of gin’ before going to bed.

  ‘I don’t want to get rid of them,’ Vivien said. ‘In fact, I quite like them, poor little black and blue mites. They’re terribly brave. They haven’t cried once. Hetty said her two have never stopped weeping and wailing since they arrived. I was merely wondering what to do with them, that’s all. I offered to take them to the beach or the fairground, but Freda just gave me a filthy look and didn’t answer. I mean, darling, now this frightful war’s started, we might have them with us for months and months.’

  Clive glanced at her in bewilderment. She liked them! His wife never ceased to surprise him. They’d been married for fifteen years, yet he felt as if he understood her no more now than he did the day of the wedding. Her white legs were crossed daintily at the ankles, the toenails of her little feet painted pink. He felt a surge of desire. If it wasn’t for those bloody kids, he’d pick her featherlight form up, carry her into the house and make love to her on the tangerine linen settee in the lounge.

  ‘I worry about how you’ll cope when I’m at work,’ he growled. On Friday night they’d tried to bath the children. You could actually see the lice crawling on their dirt-caked scalps. The girl had screamed blue murder at the sight of the water and accused them of trying to kill her. She’d refused to remove the grubby frock she’d arrived in and change into one of the pretty ones Vivien had hastily acquired from one of her friends. Clive had made sure they never had children of their own. Vivien was little more than a child herself.

  Vivien gave her little tinkling laugh. ‘Sweetheart, I’ll manage, and I’ll have Mrs Critchley to help, won’t I?’

  She smiled at him and his heart turned over. She wasn’t a strong woman, a fact h
e’d conveyed to the Billeting Officer when he’d called to assess what room they had available for evacuees. ‘My wife is virtually an invalid. She has a frightfully weak heart.’

  The man had looked at him shrewdly. ‘We’re only asking that you house a couple of children, sir. After all, there’s likely to be a war any minute. Everyone has to do their bit.’

  At the time, Clive had felt uncomfortable, as if he were shirking his responsibilities. ‘I’ve every intention of “doing my bit”, as you put it, when the time comes,’ he replied stiffly, though it would be a while before he, at forty-one, would be called up. ‘All I’m worried about is my wife having to look after a crowd of strange children. And it’s not just her health, she’s …’

  Clive paused. The man looked at him superciliously, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to finish. Clive cursed him inwardly. Some minor civil servant or Town Hall clerk who’d suddenly found himself with a little power over people’s lives and was milking the situation for all its worth. He’d been nearly going to say, ‘She’s not quite right in the head,’ but thought better of it. Hardly anybody noticed. It was merely a case of retarded development. Vivien hadn’t quite grown up, that’s all. He wasn’t going to tell this jumped-up Government Johnnie his private business.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘It won’t be a crowd of children, sir. Two, that’s all. Shouldn’t tax your wife’s strength too greatly, should it?’

  To Clive’s surprise, it hadn’t. Vivien had been an absolute brick since Freda and Dicky had arrived. She hadn’t shouted at the boy for tearing the waterlilies to pieces, though he personally could have broken the kid’s neck, nor when one of them smashed the Venetian glass vase that her mother had given her last Christmas. She seemed more sympathetic and amused than shocked. ‘They didn’t mean it, darling. They just don’t know any better.’

  ‘I’ll just go and have another little chat with them.’

  He watched her slender, diminutive figure as she strolled down the garden towards the children, then went indoors and switched on the wireless. The King was speaking to the nation at six o’clock. He stood to attention for the National Anthem which preceded His Majesty’s speech and kept the sound on low, just in case one of those dratted kids did something to his Vivien, like throw her in the lily pond, for instance.

  ‘Hello, there!’

  Freda Tutty clutched Dicky’s hand protectively and stared sullenly at the pretty lady. She would never have admitted it in a million years, but she quite liked her, mainly because she had the oddest, never-felt-before feeling that the pretty lady actually liked her back. She hadn’t yelled at them, not once, or criticised, or looked at them contemptuously or held her nose, the way people usually did when they met the Tuttys. Despite this, Freda felt an enormous weight of unhappiness. She hated Southport and the big bright house they’d been brought to. The house made her feel dizzy, almost sick, with its high ceilings and tall windows and huge pieces of peculiar furniture. She felt safer in the garden, though that was frightening, too, surrounded by towering trees and full of prickly bushes and funny looking flowers. The first night she’d scarcely slept, all by herself in a strange-smelling bed, and longed for the familiar palliasse on the floor of the bedroom in Pearl Street. She missed her mam and the warm body of Dicky curled up beside her – he was in the next room in a bed all of his own – though after two nights she’d grown used to the bed and the smell seemed slightly more pleasant than the one at home.

  The pretty lady didn’t seem to mind that Freda hadn’t responded. She dropped onto the grass and watched them, smiling. ‘What do you fancy doing tomorrow?’

  Freda supposed she’d better answer. ‘Nothing,’ she replied churlishly.

  ‘But you did nothing yesterday and nothing today. We could go into town and buy some toys. You’d like a doll, wouldn’t you? And I’m sure Dicky would love a train set.’

  Dicky nodded his head vigorously. ‘Wanna train set,’ he said gruffly.

  Freda pinched his arm. ‘No, you don’t.’

  He winced, but insisted stubbornly, ‘I do.’

  ‘You don’t!’

  ‘I think he does,’ said the pretty lady reasonably. ‘And most girls love dolls. I did, when I was little.’

  ‘I hate dolls.’

  The pretty lady shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll just take Dicky, then.’

  Freda frowned at the notion of being separated from her brother. She’d give Dicky a good kicking when they got upstairs. He was nothing but a bloody traitor.

  The pretty lady was examining her pink fingernails. Freda noticed her toenails were painted the same colour. She glanced down at her own grubby, scratched hands on which the nails were bitten to the quick.

  ‘Would you like me to paint your nails?’

  Freda looked up quickly. The pretty lady was watching her with interest. It was such a strange, unexpected question that it made Freda feel funny inside. Nobody had ever offered to do anything nice for her before – except perhaps Eileen Costello from next door, and even she usually had a condescending look on her face as if it was all beneath her – but this lady was talking to her as if she were an equal. She looked down at her hands again and then back to the pretty lady’s, which were soft and white and no bigger than her own.

  ‘Will you paint me toes, too?’

  ‘If you want,’ the lady said generously. ‘You can choose which colour, I’ve loads of different bottles. Though you’ll have to have a bath first …’

  ‘You mean the thing with the water?’

  ‘Yes. You can wash yourself and I’ll shampoo your hair. I reckon it would look terribly pretty if it was clean. It’s lovely and thick.’

  ‘Pretty?’ Freda put her hand up to her stringy, greasy hair. Pretty! It seemed inconceivable that anything about her should be regarded as pretty. ‘Will it look like yours?’ The lady had blonde hair, almost white, which fell in waves halfway down her back.

  ‘Not exactly. Mine’s longer and a different colour. We’ll just have to see, won’t we? Oh, isn’t this exciting!’

  When Clive emerged from the lounge, his wife was leading the children upstairs. He watched, open-mouthed, until they disappeared onto the landing, and heard Vivien say, ‘When you’ve finished, Freda, we’ll bath Dicky between us, then we’ll do your nails …’

  Joey and Mary Flaherty stood arm in arm on the steerage deck of the Athenia, The Atlantic ocean stretched before them, a seemingly endless expanse of large, rocking grey-brown waves. Their three children were fast asleep in the cramped cabin below.

  ‘I wonder how they took the news in Pearl Street?’ Mary said wistfully. ‘I feel mean, somehow, not being with all me old neighbours.’

  The outbreak of war had been announced by the captain on the loudspeaker system that morning.

  ‘Don’t be silly, luv,’ Joey said impatiently. He was worried. After working on the docks for nearly twenty years, he knew enough about ships to realise that instead of sailing straight ahead, the Athenia, which was about two hundred and fifty miles off the Irish coast, was taking a zig-zag westward course, though he hadn’t mentioned this to Mary. The ship had also been blacked out and passengers had been ordered not to smoke on deck. The Captain must consider there was a threat of attack.

  ‘I can’t wait to get there,’ Mary breathed, forgetting all about Pearl Street. The ship was docking in Montreal and Kevin, Joey’s brother, would meet them in his truck and take them across to Ontario. A job was waiting for Joey in the car plant where Kevin worked and the wages were more than double those he earned in Bootle. There was even a house that went with the job, a white wooden bungalow which had a garden with their very own trees! Mary felt a bubble of happiness rise in her throat at the thought of the fine life ahead. She pressed her cheek against Joey’s shoulder, almost overcome by it all.

  ‘You don’t know what you want, woman. You wanted to be in Bootle less than half a minute ago.’

  Mary stared up a
t him in surprise. ‘You’re a grumpy ould sod tonight, Joey Flaherty. What’s the matter?’

  Joey had opened his mouth to reply when the torpedo hit the ship amidships. A muffled explosion came from below and the whole vessel rocked. There was, for the moment, dead silence. Then Mary screamed, ‘The children! Joey, we’ve got to get the children!’

  Chapter 3

  On Monday morning, the first full day of war, Jacob Singerman woke up very early as usual. His arm reached out involuntarily for Rebecca, then he remembered his beloved wife had been gone for more than forty years.

  ‘You old fool,’ he whispered.

  He got out of bed and dressed immediately. If he lay there he’d only think about Ruth. It was best to be busy, doing something. He still possessed his sewing skills, though his weak eyes felt strained if he did too much, and had offered to run up blackout curtains for several of the neighbours, including Eileen Costello once she bought the material, on the old sewing machine he kept in the parlour. He drew his own curtains back and for a startled moment thought someone had painted the outside of his window pitch black, because he could see nothing. He stood there feeling claustrophobic and shut in, as if he was completely alone down the darkest mine.

  Such utter blackness! Not a wink of light to be seen anywhere. He stood for several minutes leaning on the window frame listening to the rapid beat of his heart, which appeared to be the only sound on earth. He’d be glad when somebody moved in next door. He missed the sounds of life, of the Flahertys’ noisy laughter and occasional tearful rows. The widow on his other side was as quiet as a mouse. Slowly, as if they were approaching through a murky fog, he began to make out the shape of the houses opposite, saw where the roofs merged with the sombre sky. Then, even more slowly, the heavens began to lighten in the east and the smudged silhouettes of the chimney pots could just be seen.