Put Out the Fires (19 page)

No-one had guessed, and even the girl herself didn’t know she was expecting. I showed quite a bit when I was having Tony, but not as much as our Sheila. She always puffs up like a balloon.”

“ I looked like an elephant each time I was pregnant.” The remark came out quite naturally, when Ruth had sworn she’d never talk about the past to anyone.

“Did you have a hard time, like? People with small bones often do. Me and our Sheila are lucky. We’re big-boned like me dad.”

Ruth swallowed. “I did with Simon, but not with Leah.

She was a week early and much smaller. Simon was late.”

Simon had been late for everything ever since. She felt she had to change the subject away from herself. “She’ll miss the build-up, won’t she? Dilys, I mean. You know, buying things for the baby, wondering whether it will be a boy or a girl? Perhaps the penny will drop one of these days and she’ll realise she’s pregnant.”

“Perhaps. On the other hand, even when she’s had it, she may find it difficult to accept it’s hers. We might end up with a bigger problem on our hands, though I’ll have a word with Miss Thomas at work. She’ll know what to do.

She always does.”

“Would Ellis take it?” suggested Ruth.

Eileen looked doubtful. “I don’t think so. Anyroad, she’s not a fit person to have a baby. She bullied Dilys something rotten. Imagine how she’d behave with a kid who was born ‘out of wedlock’, as they say.” She looked rueful. “But then who am I to have an opinion? I’ve already made enough mess of me own life, without passing judgement on other people’s.”

Ruth glanced surreptitiously at Eileen. Her lovely fresh face looked unbearably sad. “Not according to the street,” she ventured. “Everyone seems to think you and Francis are the perfect couple.” Ruth had met Francis and had been impressed with his easygoing charm.

“Aye, I know,” Eileen said dryly. “But the street don’t know what goes on behind closed doors, do they?”

“I’m sorry,” Ruth said quickly. “I didn’t wish to pry.”

Nothing had irritated her more since she’d come back than people asking questions, questions, and more questions, yet here she was, doing the same thing herself, or at least, gently probing into another woman’s affairs.

“It’s all right, luv. I don’t suppose you know anyone proper till you’re married and have lived with them full time.”

“I suppose not. My own husband, Benjy, was a darling man when we were courting, but once married, he turned into a real stuffed shirt, concerned only with appearances.” Ruth grimaced. “He even grew a set of mutton-chop whiskers. I couldn’t stand the sight of them.”

She’d done it again! Imparted a confidence without intending to.

Eileen rolled her eyes. “Husbands, eh!”

They both laughed.

From then on, Eileen called on Dilys a few evenings a week when she was on the morning shift, taking a collection of the latest women’s magazines from the girls at work. During the week when it was her turn to keep an eye on the girl, Ruth hung round in town once the Afternoon Tea Dance was over, and met Dilys outside the tradesman’s entrance of the Adelphi Hotel. She took her to Lyon’s for a cup of tea and an Eccles cake, and had difficulty persuading her that one was enough for a girl in her condition.

“What condition?” Dilys would enquire blankly.

Ruth spent the intervening time buying presents in the shops which were all dressed up for Christmas.

Amazingly, there were quite a few people to choose presents for. Apart from her father, there was Tony Costello, whom she’d grown quite fond of, and his mother, because Ruth and Eileen had become sort of friends through their shared sense of responsibility for Dilys, and of course, Dilys herself, plus odds and ends for the forthcoming baby.

One evening, as she wandered round whiling away the time before she was due at the Adelphi, Ruth noticed a Somerset Maugham play, The Circle, was showing at the Royal Court Theatre, and impulsively went in and asked for two tickets for Saturday, one for herself and the other for her father. She loved the author’s novels, but had never seen one of his plays. It would be a nice Christmas treat for them both. They could meet Dilys beforehand and take her somewhere more salubrious than Lyon’s for tea, which would be a Christmas treat for her at the same time.

It was safe to go out again at night; the air-raids had been almost non-existent during December.

Unfortunately, Ruth was informed at the Box Office, Saturday, being the last night, the theatre had sold out, so she bought two for Friday, instead.

Feeling rather pleased with herself, she met Dilys later by the side of the hotel. The girl came out looking puzzled and upset.

“What’s the matter?” Ruth asked.

“I’ve got the sack,” Dilys said indignantly. “Mrs Hay wood said I’m having a baby.”

“But Dilys, you are.”

Dilys shook her head stubbornly. “It’s not possible.”

The Lime Street pavements were packed with people, either just finishing work or arriving for a night out on the town. It was pitch dark. At twenty past five, when the blackout began, the Christmas and street lights had been switched off and the city plunged into darkness. Ruth said no more as they struggled through crowds until they’d queued up for their food in Lyoh’s and found an empty table.

“Dilys, love, what about the man you told me about, the one last summer, the one who invited you into bed with him?” she hissed.

“What about him?”

Oh, Lord! The strange thing was, plain and spotty though Dilys was, as well as incredibly stupid, the more Ruth got to know the girl, the more she liked her. It was hard to do otherwise. She was so naive and innocent, so utterly unspoilt, like a five-year-old in a fifteenyearold’s body.

“I can’t understand why people keep going on about it,” the girl said peevishly. The mam was just the same. How can I possibly be having a baby when I’m not married?”

Jacob wasn’t in when Ruth arrived home, slightly later than usual. He must still be in the Costellos’, having taken Tony home to bed. She slipped across the road to tell him she was back.

“I was beginning to worry where you were,” he said when he opened the door. “Come in. I’m just listening to Moura Lympany on the wireless. What a wonderful pianist she is, though not as good as you,” he added loyally. “It’s a pity you gave it up.”

Ruth smiled as she followed him down the narrow hallway. “They say love is blind, Dad, not deaf. I was never a patch on Moura Lympany.”

He shook his head. “That’s a matter of opinion. Why are you so late, love?”

“ I’ve been having a long talk with Dilys,” Ruth answered with a sigh. “It turns out it was her who thought we were stupid. I spent a good hour explaining that you can still fall pregnant even if you’re not married. She thought it couldn’t possibly happen to single girls, they had a special dispensation.”

“Poor child. Did you manage to convince her that there is no such dispensation?”

“ Only half convinced. Maybe Eileen can have a talk with her. I think she trusts her more than me.” Ruth sat on the edge of a chair and glanced around. She always felt curiously surprised that Eileen’s house was almost completely devoid of ornaments and photographs.

“Next week will be Christmas,” said Jacob. “What will happen to Dilys over the holiday? She’s always welcome in our house, you know, for her Christmas dinner.”

He’d half forgotten he was Jewish, had Jacob Singerman.

Having lived amongst Gentiles for most of his life, he had come to celebrate the Christian festivals of his neighbours.

Ruth smiled. “Christmas, Dad? Yet there was no Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur.”

Jacob blushed and beat his brow with considerable force. “Oh, what a terrible Jew I am! Your mother would turn in her grave if she knew I’d brought you up with nothing to believe in.”

“You brought me up ‘with principles, Dad. Perhaps that’s all that really matters in the end.’ She recalled that Benjy had been slightly ashamed of being Jewish, and affected Christian habits in order to ingratiate himself with the high and mighty of Graz.

“We will go to the synagogue over Christmas,” Jacob promised. “I meant to go in September to thank God when I heard you were safe.”

“Whatever you like, Dad.” Ruth stood. “I’m starving and the meal at home smells good. What is it?”

“Stew with lentils and broad beans.” They always had stew on the days she worked because it was all he could cook, though he usually managed to make each one slightly different.

Ruth remembered the tickets for the Somerset Maugham play and showed them to her father. “I asked for Saturday, but they were sold out,” she explained when Jacob fretted he wouldn’t be there to look after Tony.

“Francis is here less and less of a night-time. As you know, last night Eileen was the first to arrive.”

“Surely Francis can take care of his own son just for the one night?” Ruth argued.

“I suppose so, though I mustn’t forget to tell Eileen.

Anyway, love, you go home and start on your tea. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

After she’d eaten, Ruth wondered if Brenda Mahon would alter another of her frocks for Friday night. It would be nice to wear something new for the theatre—well, sort of new. She decided to pop along the street and ask her.

“I’m sorry, Ruth,” Brenda said, “but I’m not taking on any more work at the moment.”

“It would only be a small matter to remove the lace on the bodice and take the hem up a few inches, and perhaps the collar would look better without a frill,” Ruth said persuasively. She held the dress up by the shoulders, hoping Brenda might feel inspired by the challenge to turn it into something modern.

“I’m sorry,” Brenda said again. She ran her hand through her short dark hair which looked rather tousled, as if it hadn’t been combed that day, which wasn’t at all like Brenda. She was usually as neat as ninepence, as Jacob would have said. “I just don’t feel in the mood for sewing at the moment. It’s taking me all me time to finish off the work I’ve got to do for Christmas.”

“Oh, well, never mind.” Ruth folded the dress. “I hope your mood soon changes, otherwise you’re going to have a lot of disappointed customers at Christmas.”

“Did you get married in a church or a registry office?”

Brenda asked when she returned to the living room, which was hazy with smoke.

“Registry Office,” Carrie answered. She had a cigarette in one hand and a glass of gin and orange in the other.

“That means you’re only married in the eyes of the law.

With us, it was in church, which means we’re married in the eyes of God as well.”

“I’m not married in the eyes of anyone, am I, darlin’?”

Carrie puffed. “I’m back to being Carrie Banks again.”

“Lucky old you!” said Brenda gloomily.

She was still mad, more than two weeks later, spitting mad. She hadn’t written to tell Xavier about Carrie turning up, because she wanted to see his face when he turned up himself, even if it meant waiting months. She hadn’t sent him any money, either. He could live on seven bob a week, like all the other men. Xavier rarely wrote, but she was expecting a letter any minute remarking on the fact there’d been no postal orders in her last two letters.

“Have some more gin,” suggested Carrie.

“I wouldn’t mind.” Brenda handed over her glass. There was a crashing sound from the parlour, where the girls and Sonny were playing. Normally, Muriel and Monica would have been in bed hours ago, but Brenda had forgotten what normal was. Both women ignored the noise.

“Have a fag. It’ll calm your nerves. I couldn’t live without me gaspers.”

“So I’ve noticed. I don’t want to start smoking.”

“You didn’t want to start drinking, either, but you did, and you enjoy it, don’t you?”

“Aye, I suppose I do. It gives you a nice dizzy feeling.”

“Have a fag, come on! You might enjoy that, too,” coaxed Carrie.

“Light it for me. I don’t know how.”

“You just strike the match, see! Then take a deep puffin, and lo and behold, you’ve got a lit fag. Here you are, gal.”

“Ta.” The cigarette was smeared with lipstick, but Brenda didn’t care. She coughed and spluttered a little over the first few puffs, but smoked the rest without too much difficulty.

Carrie refilled her own glass.

“You’re drinking too much,” Brenda warned. “Not so much the gin, but the orange. You’re turning yellow.”

“I would have turned yellow a long time ago if it were the gin and orange. No, it’s these shells I’m working with.

Everybody in the factory’s yellow. It’s something in the gunpowder.”

Carrie had got a job in a chemicals factory in Chorleywood, a long way to go, but the wages were unbelievably high. Six quid a week and meals thrown in, which was compensation of a sort for turning yellow.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Brenda asked worriedly.

“Safe? Of course it’s safe,” said Carrie dismissively.

“Mind you, I wouldn’t stay if you turned green or purple or something. Yellow looks quite attractive, like a suntan.”

“I suppose it does in a way.” Brenda brooded briefly.

“Were you expecting Sonny when he married you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind a bit. Yes, I was, as a matter of fact. Were you expecting Monica?”

“Jaysus, no! We didn’t do anything until after we were married.”

“Did he do it twice a night with you?”

“Not bloody likely! Did he with you?”

“Well, yes, but then he only saw me a couple of times a week. I mean, it was more with you on average,” Carrie said. Both women were anxious not to score points off each other. “D’you know, I’m starving? I don’t half fancy some chips.”

“I’ll make some if you like,” Brenda offered.

“Nah! It’s shop-bought chips I fancy, not home made.

Shall I go and buy some?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Carrie departed, but not before nearly falling headlong over a beautifully embroidered cushion which had been left on the floor.

It was terrible, Brenda reflected, the way everything was being neglected; the house, the children, and even worse, her work. Women kept calling wanting to know why their frocks weren’t ready as promised, and Brenda had to keep fobbing them off with a lie.