by Maureen Lee
‘She can’t have picked up a fella at Midnight Mass, surely!’
‘Well he’s upstairs in the box room. I heard him coughing.’
‘And where’s your mam?’
‘She sleeps in the room with me. She’s still there.’
‘Would you like me to come in and sort things out, Freda?’
‘No, ta. I’ll do it meself.’ Freda reached out and took the parcels containing the Juliet cap and Dicky’s scarf out of Brenda’s hands. ‘Thanks for the presents,’ she said, closing the door.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Brenda wished the empty air. But she had forgotten that she still had her daughters with her.
‘Merry Christmas, Mam,’ they said together.
‘Look, Mam, the sun’s come out,’ observed Monica. ‘On Christmas morning an’ all.’ They couldn’t remember it having happened before.
They held on to her skirt as they walked back to their own house. Inside, they took turns looking at themselves in their new frocks in the mirror in the parlour where their mother made clothes on her Singer sewing machine for people from all over Liverpool. They stood on their toes and fluttered their arms – they’d recently started having ballet lessons.
Brenda sang happily as she began to peel her own potatoes ready for dinner. This was what she liked best, order and a quiet atmosphere. And unlike most women in the street, she didn’t have to wait until after three o’clock when the pubs emptied before sitting down to eat. Xavier, her louse of a husband, had left home and would hopefully never return.
After an early dinner, seeing as the sun was out, she’d take the girls for a walk along the Docky, and when they got back they’d play snakes and ladders or ludo – she’d bought them a fairly decent set of games from a second-hand shop.
Who should she wake up first – her mam or her fancy man? Freda bit her lip. And had Mam actually gone to Midnight Mass, or had she passed some pub that had stayed open after it should have closed and been unable to resist nipping inside for a quick gin that turned into several gins, giving Mass a miss, as it were?
Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and thought. She could hear Dicky moving around in his bedroom – probably looking at his pressies. She’d managed to get him a few nice things: a little boat with a sail that he could take to the pool in the park in the summer, a bow and arrow, and a Dandy annual – he wouldn’t mind that it was a few years old and more than a bit well thumbed. It was a pity that Brenda woman hadn’t brought the scarf earlier; she could have put that by the bed with the other things.
Whoever was in the box room coughed again. Freda wanted to throw open the door and order him to leave, but was worried what state he might be in. She didn’t want to end up seeing things she’d sooner not. After some urgent consideration, she decided to hammer on the door and shout at him to sod off, but before she could move, the door opened and he came out.
‘Good morning,’ he said politely when he saw her hovering on the stairs.
‘Good morning,’ Freda stammered. He was nothing like the seedy individuals her mother used to bring home. He was young – about twenty-five – and wore thick working trousers, a shirt without a collar, and only socks on his feet; clearly he was not yet fully dressed. But unlike those other men, he didn’t smell of alcohol or anything else disgusting.
‘If I could just have some warm water for a shave, then I’ll be on my way,’ he said, smiling.
‘Do you want to do it in the kitchen?’ Freda asked, surprising herself. She wasn’t usually so courteous or helpful. But his smile was really nice – charming was the word.
‘Well, I’d make less mess than in here. Thank you. I’ll just get my stuff.
She returned downstairs and he followed a minute later. ‘Would you like some tea?’ she enquired, surprising herself again.
‘Thank you. You’re being very kind.’ Another smile.
She pulled out a chair and indicated for him to sit at the table, thankful that nowadays the room had curtains at the windows and the furniture wasn’t falling to bits. Then she fetched the teapot along with two cups and saucers. The crockery was cheap, but there wasn’t a single crack in anything. There’d been a time when the Tuttys had drunk out of tins.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,’ he said. ‘Or has your mother told you?’
‘She’s still asleep.’ He had an accent, something northern, though she couldn’t tell from exactly where.
‘We met at Midnight Mass. I was expecting to stay with a friend who lives by the church, but he wasn’t home. I should’ve gone straight into town, there’s a seamen’s hostel there, but I wasn’t feeling so good, if the truth be known. I just had to get in out of the cold. By the time Mass was over, the trams had stopped running. Your mother asked if I was all right and offered me a bed for the night when I told her how I felt. She’s very kind, your mother.’ The smile again. ‘My name’s Tom Chance, by the way.’
‘I’m Freda Tutty.’ Gosh, this was civilised, just like people behaved in books. ‘So you’ll be off to the hostel once you’ve had a shave, then?’
‘Straight away,’ he promised.
Freda had no idea what came over her. ‘Would you like to stay for your Christmas dinner?’ she offered. ‘We’ve got chicken.’
Sheila Reilly was to be disappointed if she expected her dad to arrive early and help with the children. At that moment, Jack Doyle was standing with his big feet planted in the soil of his other daughter’s garden in Melling, having ridden over there on his bike as soon as there was a hint of daylight. He was a man who’d lived all his life in a house without a garden, and it was like a gift from heaven to find himself in charge of half an acre of land, most particularly in wartime, when food was rationed and he could grow stuff for his friends and family. Right now, he actually felt a thrill when he bent to cut the stem of a Brussels sprout plant and carried it into the cottage where his daughter was washing dishes.
‘Look at that,’ he said proudly, laying it on the draining board. ‘Must be at least fifteen sprouts on it – look like little green roses, don’t they?’
‘I suppose they do, Dad,’ Eileen conceded.
‘Lovely and firm.’ Jack pressed a couple of the sprouts between finger and thumb, then burst out laughing. ‘I’ve done a lot of things in me life – fought in a war, married your mother, fathered two daughters and a son – but I don’t think I’ve ever been as pleased with meself as having grown me own sprouts and picked them on Christmas Day.’
Eileen finished washing the dishes and began to dry them. ‘You’re a daft bugger, Dad,’ she said fondly. She looked at the sprouts. ‘I can’t wait to eat them. They’ll probably taste better with a little lump of margarine on.’
Jack nodded. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take these to Sheila’s and another lot for our Sean’s lot. There’s plenty more out there for you – I’ll pick more before I go.’ He’d promised some to a couple of mates, too.
‘All right, Dad,’ his daughter said serenely. ‘Take whatever you like.’
He looked at her and frowned. ‘You can always come back and have your dinner with us, girl,’ he urged. He was having his at Sheila’s. ‘It’s a bit lonely here; too quiet.’ Jack was used to being surrounded by people, usually very noisy and argumentative. All that could be heard here were the birds and the very occasional car passing, though the fresh air was almost as inebriating as fine wine. He sniffed to remind himself.
‘Dad!’ She looked at him indignantly. ‘I’ve got me husband here, fast asleep in bed at the moment, and Nicky is in his play pen with the blocks you made him. Nick would’ve been up by now if he hadn’t got back so late last night – you can imagine what the trains were like from London on Christmas Eve. Then he had to walk from Kirkby station carrying a suitcase.’
‘All right, luv.’ He couldn’t very well point out that Nick hadn’t been himself since his plane crashed and he lost his arm, and the little lad was too quiet by a mile.
‘Would you like some b
rekky, Dad?’ Eileen enquired. ‘The people next door with the hens gave us half a dozen eggs for Christmas. D’you fancy scrambled eggs on toast?’
Jack fancied them something awful, but he said, ‘No, ta, luv. Just the toast’ll do me fine, particularly if I can have jam on it.’ He’d sooner his grandson had the eggs.
‘I’ve plenty of jam – home-made,’ Eileen assured him. ‘I’ll wake Nick up with a cup of tea. Perhaps you could go and talk to Nicky for a while. I’ll bring the tea in a minute.’
A cheerful fire was burning in the large, comfortable living room where fifteen-month-old Nicky sat in his play pen with the bricks Jack had made him for his birthday.
The little boy chuckled when his grandad came in. ‘Ba,’ he cried and sent the pile of bricks flying. ‘Ba.’
‘Ba yourself.’ Jack picked up the child and sat him on his knee. He really should have a bit more conversation than ‘ba’ at his age. He was a beautiful little boy, though, the image of his father with his dark curly hair and huge brown eyes. Nick Stephens was Greek; his real name was Nicolas Stephanopoulos.
‘When’s he going to learn to talk?’ called Jack.
Eileen appeared in the doorway. ‘Whenever he wants to,’ she said. ‘He talks now when he’s in the mood.’
‘What does he say?’
‘Quite long words, like “Merry Christmas”.’
Jack met his grandson’s eyes. ‘Say “Merry Christmas”,’ he demanded.
‘Ba,’ the little boy shouted and twisted Jack’s nose.
Eileen laughed. ‘He’s obviously not in the mood just now.’
Nicky wriggled out of Jack’s arms and began to walk quite steadily around the room. Jack got up and stood in front of the fireplace. Although there was a fire guard there, the metal would be too hot to be touched by little fingers.
Napoleon, Eileen’s giant ginger cat, strolled arrogantly into the room. Jack, who didn’t like cats, made a face at it; he could have sworn that the animal made a face back before flopping down on the mat.
He heard Eileen go upstairs, and then the voice of his son-in-law, Nick, asking, ‘Is Jack here?’ When Eileen replied in the affirmative, Nick said, ‘I’ll have that downstairs, then.’
Jack liked and admired Nick more than virtually any other man he’d ever known. At the outbreak of war he had worked as a scientist in a local munitions factory, but had argued and fought for months to be allowed to join the Royal Air Force. Eventually he had been accepted, only to crash and lose a limb mere months later.
He was wearing a dressing gown as he entered the room now, his right arm extended to shake the visitor’s hand.
‘Hello, Jack. Good to see you.’
‘And you too, Nick, old son. How are you feeling?’
‘Really well. Exceptionally well, in fact.’ There was just the faintest suggestion of a nervous tremor in his voice.
Jack didn’t think he looked well at all, nor did he sound it. Nick’s face was tired and drawn and he’d lost yet more weight. Jack noticed that Eileen was regarding her husband with worried eyes. There was, very briefly, an awkward silence, broken by Nicky saying, ‘Merry Christmas, Daddy,’ and everybody laughed.
Nick scooped his son up expertly with one arm, Eileen brought in the tea, and milk for Nicky, and the two men settled down to discuss the progress of the war, their favourite subject.
There was no doubt they were winning, Jack decided as he cycled back to Bootle, the Brussels sprouts dangling from his handlebars in a string bag. It was important that he arrive home in good time – well before midday – in order to have a wash and change into his best suit for when the King’s Arms opened. Most men wore their Sunday best when they went for a pint on important occasions like Christmas Day.
He whistled now as he rode, now and then breaking into song.
‘Noel, Noel,’ he warbled, ‘Noel, Noel …’
‘Born is the King of Israel,’ a woman finished for him as he turned a corner.
Jack waved to her. His children would have been surprised by such behaviour coming from their rather staid father, but Jack was feeling more hopeful then he had done in months. The war was being won; there was no doubt about it.
It was three months now since the army of the German General Rommel had fallen to the Allies led by General Montgomery. Twenty-eight thousand enemy prisoners had been taken. Not long afterwards, the Japanese had been beaten by the Americans at Guadalcanal. The Japs preferred to die than be taken prisoner, and thousands had lost their lives. Added to that, the Australians were definitely on the winning side in New Guinea, Tobruk had been retaken, and following the Allied landings in North Africa, the Vichy regime had collapsed.
‘This is not the end,’ Winston Churchill, the prime minister, had said. ‘It is not even the beginning of the end, but it is perhaps the end of the beginning.’
‘And so say all of us,’ Jack declared out loud as he neared Bootle. A Labour man to his bones, in peacetime he wouldn’t have given Churchill the time of day, but the bloke had turned out to be an ideal war leader with an awesome gift of the gab.
It was just past three o’clock and the King’s Arms had closed when most of the families in Pearl Street sat down to their Christmas dinner.
Jack Doyle was slightly unsteady on his feet when he arrived at his daughter Sheila’s house, and wasn’t in a state to help with anything. Fortunately, Brenda, who had already eaten, arrived in time to help, quickly boiling the sprouts that Jack had forgotten to drop off earlier. Her girls had pleaded to be left at home rather than encounter those maniacal boys again. They were looking through her Simplicity pattern book, deciding what clothes they wanted made when they were grown up.
It was still sunny outside, and what sounded like a badly rehearsed male-voice choir was singing outside the pub, accompanied by Paddy O’Hara on his harmonica. Paddy was blind and usually had his Christmas dinner with one of the families in the street.
‘Who’s Paddy eating with this year?’ Brenda enquired as she lifted the roast potatoes out of the oven. The heat made her eyes water. The lamb would be overdone if it were left in much longer.
‘I think it’s Alice, our Sean’s missus,’ Sheila said. ‘Though I don’t know what got into her to offer. She’s not long had a baby, she’s got five brothers and sisters to look after, and our Sean’s in Egypt or somewhere – some place with a desert.’
‘I’ll take Paddy round there in a minute,’ Brenda promised. ‘And Alice might like a hand.’ The family only lived along the street, at number 5. She sighed. She’d be glad when everything returned to normal and she could lead her own life again. And she hoped Paddy wouldn’t play his harmonica in the house. She couldn’t stand it.
The Tuttys had long ago finished eating but were still at the table, playing cards for balls of silver paper – each was supposed to be worth a shilling. Tom Chance had taught them how to play blackjack and rummy. They’d played snap for a while, which didn’t need teaching, but it had become boring. If the silver paper had been real coins, Dicky would have won fifteen bob. Dicky didn’t enjoy himself all that often and was in his element. He had a knack for cards, Tom said. ‘Some people have it, most don’t.’
Tom had even helped make the Christmas dinner, actually frying the chicken in pieces and making it much tastier. He’d offered to buy a bottle of wine from the pub, but on the quiet Freda had explained that her mother had once had a problem with the drink.
‘If she has a glass of wine, it might make her start again.’
So Tom had bought dandelion and burdock, which Freda thought probably tasted much better.
Around five o’clock, when the sun began to set, Tom said he’d best be off. ‘I don’t want to leave it too late to get to the hostel.’
The Tuttys looked at each other and Freda blurted out, ‘You can stay with us again tonight if you want.’ She’d go upstairs later and make the room more comfortable.
‘Thank you,’ Tom said. ‘I’d like that very much.’
&
nbsp; The street remained full of noise until late into the night. The moon came out, a perfect half, and there was no sign of a cloud in the navy-blue sky, though there were plenty of stars. The air became colder, but no one minded. It was a magical night, perfect.
As the next day was Boxing Day, the children stayed outside longer than usual. At half past six, the King’s Arms reopened and was rowdier and more packed than ever. There was dancing on the cobbled streets: the ‘Hokey Cokey’ and ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’. More songs were sung, carols, the occasional rollicking hymn.
Brenda Mahon’s children had gone to bed, so Brenda went into the parlour and sat in front of her sewing machine. The place was littered with lengths of material and half-made clothes, a whole rainbow of colours. She started to sew, finding the sounds outside surprisingly entertaining alongside the regular clatter of her machine, which always reminded her of a train.
Eventually the sounds ceased and shortly afterwards next door’s clock struck midnight, but still Brenda sewed, enjoying the silence as much as she had done the noise. When the clock struck one, she decided it was time she went to bed. She was tidying up when someone tapped on her window. Turning off the light – if there was an air-raid warden around and he saw the merest chink, she could be fined – she lifted a corner of the blackout curtain. Dominic Reilly was outside making faces.
She opened the door. ‘Is it the baby?’ she asked.
‘Mam thinks so. She ses can you come straight away.’
‘Are you sure she doesn’t want Aggie Donovan?’ Brenda was no expert on the birth of babies.
‘No, she wants you,’ Dominic insisted. ‘She’s having pains.’
‘Oh, all right.’ He probably meant contractions. A woman’s work was never done, she thought irritably, neither hers nor Sheila’s.
In the Reillys’ house, Sheila was in the front bedroom, sitting on the bed.
‘Is the baby on its way, Sheil?’ Brenda was short of breath, having puffed her way upstairs.
