Put Out the Fires (44 page)

Most of the front doors in Pearl Street were wide open, and” in order to get the best out of the sparkling June sunshine, several old people were sitting outside on their steps.

Since the May blitz, windows had been temporarily repaired with sheets of canvas, slates replaced and doors refitted—many doors had already been treated to a fresh coat of paint. Sewage no longer seeped up through the grids and ran in the gutter, and it was several days since anyone had seen one of the hundreds of rats which had been disturbed by the bombs. Water, gas and electricity had all been reconnected, so, really, there was no more need to eat in one of the British restaurants which had hurriedly been established after the blitz, except that at fivepence for breakfast, and eightpence for your dinner, the meals were definitely a bargain, and you saved on your rations at the same time.

You could almost pretend the street was back to normal, Eileen Costello thought as she stood in the bedroom, struggling vainly to fasten the buttons of her biggest frock, particularly if you ignored the ugly gap where Numbers 19 to 23 used to be.

Sheila had refused to remain in the cottage when she learnt she no longer had a house of her own. “If you don’t mind, Eil, I’d sooner move in with you. It’s too noisy here.”

“Noisy!” gasped Eileen. “That’s the last word I’d use.”

“Well, there’s the trees rustling all night long, for one thing,” Sheila explained. “Then the birds start at the crack of dawn, followed by a cockerel not far away, which wakes up the dogs. They all make a helluva row between them. I suppose I’m used to the sounds in Pearl Street.

Anyroad, I’d sooner live in Bootle than any place on earth.”

So, Aggie Donovan and George Ransome offered the loan of their spare beds, and Number 16 burst into life as Sheila Reilly moved in with her six children. The Reillys had lost everything they possessed, except their lives, so Sheila didn’t complain.

“You must write to Nick and tell him that we’d all be dead if it weren’t for the cottage,” she said to her sister.

“Just think, we would have been under the stairs, all seven of us, when that bomb fell . . . ”

As soon as Sheila found another property, she would get a nine-pound grant from the Government to replace her lost furniture. In the meantime, Eileen made sure the family had a change of clothes off the second-hand rack at the WVS.

Eileen gave up trying to fasten the frock. Even if she got the buttons in the holes, they’d pop out if she dared so much as breathe. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched Dai Evans paint his front door exactly the same shade of green it had been before it had been torn off and thrown halfway up the stairs. Her dad had promised to paint hers as soon as he could find the time. She’d do it herself, but even the thought of the smell of paint made her feel slightly nauseous.

Watching Dai, she felt a surge of pride at the way everyone on Merseyside, the ordinary people as well as those in charge, had collectively cocked a snook at Hitler, pulled themselves up by their rather frayed and tatty bootstraps, and begun the almost superhuman task of putting things to rights after the raids - though it would be years before the thousands of houses totally destroyed were re-built. Eileen still shuddered when she went down Marsh Lane and came face to face with the devastation brought by the German bombs. There was scarcely a house left in Bootle that hadn’t been damaged in some way—and the raids still continued. There’d been two bad nights at the end of May, but they were nothing compared to those at the beginning of the month.

Even the docks, battered, bruised and broken though they were, the waters clogged with sunken ships, had miraculously continued to function, so that the port of Liverpool had never closed.

A white cat came wandering along the street and began to sniff at the paint which Dai Evans had put on the doorstep. Eileen stiffened. Snowy! But when she looked properly, the cat had a black-tipped tail. Although several people, including Eileen, had searched, Snowy had never been seen again since the night Jacob Singerman had died, though Nelson had returned home of his own accord the following day. Dai aimed a kick in the cat’s direction, which missed, and the animal shot down the entry beside the railway wall.

Eileen’s eyes welled with tears when she thought about the old man who’d been such a dear friend. So many people had gone forever—the remains of five hundred and fifty had been buried in a brick vault at Anfield Cemetery-and even more had been seriously injured and would forever bear the scars of that week-long blitz.

“Are you all right, Eil?” Sheila called. “You’ve been up therefor ages.”

“I’m just thinking, that’s all.”

“Mind you don’t strain yourself!”

Eileen took a cardigan out of the drawer. Even that would scarcely stretch over the gaping hole where her frock refused to button. She seemed to have grown big all of a sudden.

“I’m just popping over to Brenda Mahon’s for a minute,” she told Sheila when she went downstairs.

Brenda’s front door was open to the brilliant sunshine.

Eileen poked her head into the hallway. “Are you there, Bren?” she yelled.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Brenda yelled back. “Come on in, Eileen.”

Everything was as it used to be in Brenda’s house, except there was no longer a photograph of Xavier Mahon on the wireless and the front room was as neat as the rest, the sewing machine having been relegated to a corner, where it remained, unused.

“I’ve just made an eggless sponge,” Brenda explained when Eileen appeared in the back kitchen doorway. “If you use a spoonful of vinegar instead of an egg, it’s supposed to rise just as well.”

“Does it work?” Eileen asked, interested.

“I dunno yet. It’s still in the oven.”

“Let me know how it turns out and I’ll make one tomorrer.”

“Okay, Eil.” Brenda licked her fingers. “I was just scraping the bowl. Can I offer you a cup of Bovril? I’m afraid I’ve run out of tea.”

Eileen wrinkled her nose. “No, ta. I always feel as if I’m drinking gravy. I came to ask a favour, actually, but I expect you’ll send me away with a flea in me ear.”

“Try me,” Brenda said with a smile.

“I was wondering if you would run me up a couple of maternity smocks? Look at me!” She unbuttoned the cardigan and exposed the gap where the buttons wouldn’t meet. “This is me biggest frock and I’ve got nowt else that’ll fit. I’ve kept me eye open in the WVS, but they’ve never had anything suitable. I thought, if I let the seams out of me old black skirt and put a patch in both sides, then two smocks will see me through till September.”

Brenda shook her head. “I’m sorry, Eileen, but I’m just not in the mood for dressmaking.”

“You haven’t been in the mood for months!”

“And I’m not likely to be, not ever!”

Brenda said this with such utter finality that Eileen reckoned it was no use arguing. Nevertheless, she said gently, “You shouldn’t let what Xavier said put you off, luv.

It seems such a shame to let all your talent go to waste.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help it. Every time I go near my machine, it all comes back to me.” She was merely the dressmaker who lived downstairs and fancied him. “A woman came yesterday I haven’t seen for a couple of years, wanting a wedding dress and four bridesmaid’s frocks, but I still said no.”

“Oh, well, never mind,” Eileen sighed. “I’ll just have to look around the shops. I wonder how many coupons they’ll cost?” Clothes rationing had begun at the beginning of the month. She was a fool not to have bought them before, but had been reluctant to waste her savings—or the money Nick had sent—on maternity clothes.

“Eil?”

“Yes, luv?”

“I wanted to ask . . . ” Brenda wrinkled her face and looked slightly uncomfortable. “I mean . . . Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

“Go on, Bren,’Eileen urged.

“I was just wondering . . . would you like half the sponge when it’s done?” Brenda said in a rush.

Eileen stared at the woman thoughtfully. “No, ta,” she said eventually. “It’s very generous of you, but keep it for you and the girls.”

As she crossed the street to go home, Eileen wondered what it was that Brenda had really wanted to ask.

What Brenda was too embarrassed to ask Eileen was, how did she feel about spending the rest of her life without a man? Did Eileen have the same dead scary sensation as Brenda had, as if she was only half a person?

There were times when Brenda was terrified that Xavier might turn up and plead with her to take him back, and although she’d sworn she’d never touch him again with a barge pole, she might well take him because she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone. It wasn’t that she minded being by herself, she was used to it, even before Xavier was called up, but he was always there, in the background, someone to talk about to the neighbours or on the tram or in queues. She still talked about him now, as if nothing untoward had happened, as if he hadn’t betrayed her with Carrie Banks and probably half a dozen other women. But once the war was over and Xavier hadn’t returned Brenda crossed her fingers—who would she talk about then?

It wasn’t the bed thing, either. Although it was nice whilst it lasted, she didn’t miss it a bit. In fact, there’d been times when it had been a bit of a nuisance if she’d just dropped off to sleep.

Of course, there was always Vince. Brenda sighed.

Vince worried her, too. In a moment of weakness, she’d told him about Xavier, and since then he kept demanding they move in together. Not in Pearl Street, of course, Brenda wouldn’t have tolerated the thought for a single second, but on his side of town, where they could pretend they were married.

“It makes sense, luv,” Vince kept urging. “We get on, don’t we? We always have a lot to talk about.”

Well, Vince did. He bored her rigid going on about bus timetables, and a change of route became the sole topic of conversation for days. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to stop him from popping in several times a week for a cup of tea, and she was frightened, really frightened, that ugly and boring though he might be, he was a man, and one of these days she’d agree to his proposal and move in with him, assuming she hadn’t taken Xavier back first.

Brenda shuddered at the very notion she was willing to consider spending the rest of her life with a man she couldn’t even bring herself to kiss!

She opened the oven. The sponge had risen, not so well as with an egg, but the surface was smooth and brown.

She took it into the back kitchen to cool, rather glad Eileen hadn’t agreed to the suggestion that she have half. The girls would go through the cake like a dose of salts when they came home from school. She also felt glad she hadn’t asked that question. Eileen Costello and Brenda Mahon were as different as chalk from cheese. Once Eileen had the baby, she’d no doubt have a string of men running after her. Indeed, there’d been a rumour going round about a year ago that she was having an affair with someone in the RAF, though Sheila stoutly denied the whole thing.

Everyone in the street was waiting to see when Eileen’s baby was born. If it didn’t arrive before the end of September, then it couldn’t be Francis Costello’s, which meant his wife had been up to more than digging fields when she was in the Land Army.

Brenda went into the parlour and stared at her dumpy reflection in the full-length mirror. If only she wasn’t so damned plain, It just wasn’t fair. She fluffed out her mousy brown hair, but it merely fell back against her scalp, as flat as a pancake. Maybe if she used a different shampoo, but it was hard enough to buy a shampoo of any sort nowadays.

The sight of the sewing machine in the corner only added to her sense of despair. It might be a good idea to pawn it, get the thing out of the way forever, instead of leaving it as a constant reminder of how she’d been betrayed. Anyroad, the few bob it would fetch would be more than useful. Things were a bit tight at the moment, as the allowance from the Army was scarcely enough to keep body and soul together. If she gave it a good polish . . .

She fetched a duster and a tin of beeswax and began to polish the heavily carved top which had the make SINGER attached to it on a little black and gold enamelled plate. Brenda had always thought the name appropriate, as she often sang as she slid the material through and saw it emerging from the other side, the stitches satisfyingly neat and perfect. She removed the top for the first time since she’d made herself that horrible green frock for the dance on New Year’s Eve, and the sun dancing through the parlour window caught the silver bobbin pin, the needle and the slide plate underneath, the gold paint on the curved black body of the machine; SINGER again, in big gleaming letters. Without thinking, she pressed the treadle with her foot and the needle flashed up and down and the shuttle shot back and forth with a quiet, well-oiled clatter.

Brenda caught her breath, and Xavier might as well never have existed, as a strange warm sensation swept through her body. It was almost as good, no better, than making love! She ran her hand up and down the smooth cast-iron body, and it was like caressing something live, a real person.

She was almost choking with excitement as she opened the door of the sideboard where she kept remnants of material, and began to fling them wildly on the sofa. By the time she’d removed the lot, pieces of cloth were spread all over the room: jewel-coloured velvet, stiff taffeta, soft silk so satisfying to touch, a length of chalk-striped suiting, a lovely piece of navy-blue linen, several pieces of cotton, both striped and gingham, which she’d bought to make frocks for the girls, numerous odds and ends of lace . . .

The pattern books were on the mantelpiece, full of Sonny’s crayoned scribbles. When Brenda opened the Vogue, fingers trembling, it was like greeting a crowd of old friends. She turned to Maternity. There were several smocks, and she could run up a couple for Eileen that very afternoon. Perhaps one in gingham for every day, and that piece of navy-blue linen with a cream lace collar for best.

Brenda felt a bit guilty about the way she’d thought about Eileen earlier on. So what if she’d had an affair! Francis Costello had appeared to be the perfect husband, but then, who could have seemed more perfect that Xavier?