Lights Out Liverpool (7 page)

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 at 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!’

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.

He took a deep breath. As a young man, he’d always had too much imagination. Lately, it had been getting out of hand. For a moment there, he thought he’d died and gone to hell!

Freda Tutty lay in the sweet-smelling bed staring up with fascination at her outstretched hands with their bright red fingernails. Then she wriggled her feet out of the bedclothes and regarded her matching toes. She remembered her hair and sat up, craning her head until she could see her reflection in the mirror on top of the little dressing table on the wall opposite. It had hurt, having it washed; the pretty lady – Vivien, as they’d been told to call her – had scrubbed and scrubbed really hard with her fingertips, but the result had been worth it. Freda’s hair had dried into bouncing shoulder-length brown curls.

‘It’s more chestnut than brown,’ Vivien said admiringly, ‘and lovely and thick.’

Vivien had loaned her a nightdress, white cotton with a pattern of little sprigs of mauve forget-me-nots and a drawstring neck threaded with mauve ribbon. The nightdress was a bit too long, but this morning they were going shopping, ostensibly to buy a train set for Dicky and a doll for herself, but also to buy clothes. Freda didn’t want a doll, but she was looking forward to the clothes. Last night, when they’d gone in search of a nightdress, Vivien had let her look through the wardrobe at all her pretty frocks. She even let Freda try a couple on.

‘Isn’t this just too exciting for words?’ Vivien had trilled. ‘It’s like having a little sister,’ which Freda thought a strange thing to say, because Vivien was old
enough
to be her mam.

Suddenly, the bedroom door was pushed open with such force that it banged against the wall and swung back, almost striking the woman who entered and stood glaring down at Freda. She wore a green overall and was very tall and stout with fleshy, sallow features sprinkled with several hairy warts. Her tight grey curls were covered with a thick hairnet. This, assumed Freda, must be the daily, Mrs Critchley.

‘I suppose you’ve wet the bed again,’ she said in a grating voice.

‘No, I haven’t,’ Freda said, quickly recovering her composure and recognising an enemy straight away.

The woman came over, grabbed Freda’s wrist and squeezed it hard. ‘I didn’t appreciate coming in this morning and finding half a dozen sheets waiting to be washed.’

Not at all intimidated, Freda countered, ‘It’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it? Now, gerroff me, or I’ll tell Vivien.’

The woman released her grip and took a surprised step backwards. ‘So, it’s “Vivien”, is it?’ she hissed. ‘Well, you may have fooled Mrs W, but you haven’t fooled me, my girl.’

‘I wouldn’t waste me time, you’re not worth it. Sod off.’

Looking shaken, the woman left with a face like thunder. Freda felt the bed to see if it was wet, but the bottom sheet was dry. It was a pity about Mrs Critchley, but she was used to people talking to her as if she were a piece of dirt. And she was talking shit, anyway, because Freda wasn’t fooling anyone. Vivien was the first person to treat her like a human being and she liked her more than she’d liked anyone in her life before, even more than her
mam
, in a sort of way. She knew, instinctively, whose side Vivien would be on if Mrs Critchley made a fuss. Vivien would be on the side of her little sister.

‘I don’t want you to go, Cal. I never want you to go, but this time …’ Sheila Reilly was trying very hard not to cry. It always upset Cal, seeing her in tears when he was about to leave, but it was hard to remain dry-eyed when she was in such utter despair. He might be killed, she might never see him again, and the thought of life without Cal was so achingly unbearable that she was convinced she would die if anything happened to him.

‘I know, luv, I know.’ Cal stroked her naked body and she felt him harden. They were in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. His ship, the
Midnight Star
was sailing that night for Freemantle with a cargo of carpets and he had to be on board by midday. In a few hours he would leave. They had little time left to themselves, perhaps only minutes. Although Mary, the baby, was fast asleep in her cot in the corner, Sheila could hear the boys talking to each other in the next room. Any minute now, they’d come barging in and leap on the bed demanding a last play with their dad, or Mary would wake up wanting her feed. Outside, there came the sharp clip-clop of hooves and the creak of wheels on the cobbled street as Nelson, the coal horse, set off on the first deliveries of the day. It must be getting late.

‘Do it, Cal. Please do it,’ she whispered urgently.

‘Oh, Jesus, girl! D’you think I don’t want to?’ he replied hoarsely. It was all he thought about when he was at sea, making love to his Sheila.

‘Go on, then,’ she coaxed. He hadn’t done it properly since he came home last Thursday.

‘No! It’s only just over a week since you had the baby.’

‘That’s never stopped you before.’

‘Oh, Sheil!’ He began to kiss her passionately and she touched him till he came. She knew darned well why he wouldn’t make love, because he was worried she would have another baby. It had never mattered before, but it mattered now, because this time there was a far greater risk that he mightn’t come back.

‘Why don’t you give up the Merchant Navy, Cal? Do something else?’ She sat up and began to pull on her nightie. She knew it was a stupid question and wondered why she’d bothered asking it, but it seemed even more stupid to sail across dangerous waters with a hold full of carpets when there was a war on.

‘I’ve been at sea since I was thirteen, Sheil,’ he replied patiently. ‘There’s nowt else I’m fit for. And don’t forget, if I weren’t in the Navy, I’d be getting me call-up papers anyroad.’

She
had
forgotten. Whichever way you looked at it, she was going to lose him somehow. She couldn’t win. At least in the Navy he had some rank after his name. Cal was a Third Officer, which wasn’t nearly as grand as it sounded, but in the Army he’d be starting at the bottom as a private.

Sheila sighed as she slipped out of bed, drew the curtains back and picked up the baby. Best get her feed over with now. There were still Cal’s shirts to iron. She opened her nightie and Mary began to suck eagerly at her breast. Cal got up and Sheila watched as he began to get dressed, feeling herself grow dizzy with love at the sight of his thick muscled arms, his brown shoulders. She resisted the urge to put Mary back in her cot and demand he make love to her, properly, straight away.

Anyroad, just then, the bedroom door opened and the children poured in, all five of them, even Ryan at a rapid
crawl
. Dominic or Niall must have picked him up out of his cot. Ryan, no longer the baby, had been relegated to the boys’ room since Mary arrived.

Calum laughed and lifted up his youngest son until the tiny boy almost touched the ceiling and squealed in a mixture of terror and delight.

‘Me too, Dad, me too,’ the others shouted, jumping up and down.

‘Shurrup, youse lot. You’ll wake up the whole street,’ Sheila yelled. She regarded her family with a mixture of love and fear, then glanced hopefully at the big portrait of the Sacred Heart over the fireplace. ‘Please, dear Jesus,’ she prayed silently, ‘look after Cal for me and keep me children safe from bombs and gas and all the terrible things that can happen in a war.’

Across the road, Eileen Costello was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette. She rarely smoked, but last night had found a full packet of Capstan in a drawer and smoked several whilst she listened to the wireless with Mr Singerman and Paddy O’Hara. A writer called J. B. Priestley had read the first part of his book,
Let the People Sing
. She couldn’t wait for next Sunday to hear the second part. It somehow seemed appropriate that morning, waking up after the first refreshing night’s sleep in years, to nip downstairs, make a cup of tea and bring it back to bed along with the packet of ciggies and yesterday’s special edition of the Liverpool
Echo
. The paper, never normally published on a Sunday, contained the news that all theatres and cinemas had been closed and sporting fixtures cancelled. Her dad nearly had a fit when he learned there’d be no football match on Saturday. Everton were due to play Manchester United and he was really looking forward to it, along with nearly every other man in Liverpool.
Hitler’s
ears must have really burnt last night, the curses that were heaped upon his head.