The Seven Streets of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  ‘I don’t, thank you.’ He felt angry that she’d spent yesterday alone with her son in this isolated house, but remembered that the snow had been relentless.

  ‘Me dad will probably come and see us on his bike today, now that the snow has stopped.’ She drained her own cup and put it on the table. ‘Tell me, Mr Wood, if you haven’t an uncle living in the village, what are you doing here? This is the third time you’ve been.’

  Just imagine if he told her the truth! Just imagine if he said, ‘Well you see, Mrs Stephens, your husband is having an affair with my sister and she’s expecting his baby. Initially I came to tell you what was going on, but I fell in love with you at first sight. If things were different, I would have been here a hundred times, not just three, and would almost certainly have proposed marriage by now.’

  Instead, he sat there dumbstruck, not having the faintest idea what to say. It was she who spoke first. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if I should throw you out, Mr Wood. For some reason, you’re here under false pretences.’

  ‘At Easter …’ he began, then paused, his mind having gone blank.

  ‘Yes?’ Eileen said encouragingly. ‘Easter was the first time you came – to the garden party if I remember rightly.’

  ‘That’s right. I’d been to a wedding,’ he continued haltingly. ‘A wedding in Kirkby. It was a friend from university – we’d been at Oxford together. There was a pile of us and we all got drunk, very drunk. Next morning, I went for a walk, to clear my head sort of thing. I passed your house, saw what was going on, so came in. I paid my sixpence entrance fee,’ he assured her, just in case she thought he’d sneaked in.

  ‘That was very good of you. Why didn’t any of your friends come on the walk with you?’

  ‘They were much more drunk than I was,’ he lied.

  ‘And why the need to invent an uncle that you’d come to see?’

  ‘It seemed rather more acceptable than the truth; that I was walking off a hangover.’

  She laughed at that and he felt relieved. ‘And why did you come again – why are you here now?’ she asked. She was still smiling. ‘Has there been another wedding?’

  Peter supposed that it was time for at least half the truth. ‘Because I’m in love with you,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ve been in love with you since the first moment we met.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ The smile disappeared and she frowned. ‘But Mr Wood,’ she said seriously, ‘you know very well I’m married. What makes you think my husband wouldn’t have been home for Christmas? What if it had been him, not me, who looked out of the window earlier and saw you hanging about outside?’

  Oh Lord! He was tying himself in knots. What excuse could he give? It had to be time for the whole truth, every single bit of it. ‘Because I knew he wasn’t here,’ he said hoarsely. It was the only possible answer. ‘Because he’s with my sister in my family’s home in Wimbledon. She’s having his baby. My sister is Doria Mallory and I’m Peter Mallory, not Wood. That was another lie.’

  ‘No!’ It was a cry of pain that seemed to have come from the very depths of her being. ‘No, not Nick.’ Her expression was tragic.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Peter whispered.

  ‘He said he was working Christmas Eve and had to be back in the office tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not,’ Peter said, somewhat inadequately. ‘I think I’d better go.’

  He was about to get to his feet when Eileen shouted, ‘No! Don’t you dare leave me by myself after telling me such a terrible thing.’

  ‘Can I get you something? More tea, perhaps. Or have you got anything stronger to drink?’ He wouldn’t have minded a large whisky himself.

  ‘The last thing I want to do is drink.’ She set her burning gaze on Nicky, who was still happily drawing pictures with a crayon. ‘What’s he going to do without a dad?’

  ‘I think your husband is coming home for New Year,’ Peter said hastily.

  ‘Oh yes, he is,’ Eileen said bitterly. ‘He has graciously agreed to spend a few days with us.’ She leant forward in the chair. ‘How old is your sister? And what does she look like? What did you say her name was?’

  ‘Doria. She’s eighteen and very pretty.’

  ‘When is she expecting the baby?’

  ‘Summer some time. June, I think. She’s …’

  ‘Don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to know.’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘I shouldn’t have asked that much. Oh, and I do think you should go. Before you know it, I’ll be asking more questions and I really don’t want to hear the answers.’

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ Peter said. He’d never felt more sorry about anything in his life before. This was the worst thing he’d ever done. ‘The last thing I want is for you to be unhappy. And I know it doesn’t help in the slightest, but I really do love you.’

  He went into the hall and removed Nick Stephens’s slippers. When he had his own shoes on again, he said, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Stephens.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr – what did you say your real name was?’

  ‘Mallory. Peter Mallory.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Mallory.’

  Peter opened the door, then turned. ‘There’s just one thing …’ It was the most awful cheek.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘May I come and see you again?’

  A slight pause, then, ‘Why not?’

  At previous New Years, people had told themselves that the war was bound to end before that particular year was over. They’d thought it in 1942 and 1943, and now it was about to be 1944. Surely it would finish before this year was out. It felt as if the country had been at war for ever.

  They were fed up with rationing, with shortages of so many essential things, with the blackout and blackout curtains, with seeing barbed wire and sandbags all over the place, with the tape covering their windows; they were fed up with worrying that the air raids would start again and with having to live with the devastating results of the previous raids – there were places in Liverpool that resembled deserts of bricks instead of sand.

  Most of all, they were fed up with their husbands, sons and sometimes daughters being posted to dangerous places where they could so easily be killed. They were fed up with getting telegrams saying that their loved ones had died, sometimes in places they’d never heard of, or with someone else in the same street or the next street getting the same sort of telegram.

  In Pearl Street, and every other part of the country, on the first day of 1944, people woke up praying that this time next year the war would be behind them. One day it would become a distant memory. The time might even come when they could hardly remember it at all.

  Eileen Stephens had woken early on New Year’s Day with her husband asleep beside her. She was aware that she was on the verge of losing him, but she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. Not that Nick would be aware that he was being fought over.

  She had no intention of painting her face, showering herself with scent, wearing see-through nightclothes – not that she had any, or the coupons to buy such things if they were available; her old cotton nightdresses would just have to do. Nor was she prepared to slobber all over him, paw him and kiss him in a way she never had before.

  No. What she had decided was to stop waiting for Nick to come round, to be himself again of his own volition. She should have done it before; it was just that she hadn’t wanted to put pressure on him. She’d felt certain that one day he would realise that she had never stopped loving him, that the loss of his arm had only made her love him more, something she hadn’t thought possible.

  She was angry with him too, though she couldn’t imagine ever railing at him because of it; angry that he was having a child with another woman, in effect deserting Nicky as well as her. She had thought that she and Nicky – in particular Nicky – comprised his entire world.

  Yesterday, when he had let himself in, she had followed Nicky when he ran to greet his dad, and they had hugged Nick together. ‘We’ve missed you,’ she had whisp
ered in his ear.

  She had told him so again after they had eaten, then sat there smiling while he and Nicky played on the mat in front of the fire with the lorry her dad had made his grandson for Christmas. The smile hid a variety of feelings. How much forgiveness did you owe a man who had slept with another woman, who was now expecting his child? How much of an allowance should be made for him losing his arm? This Doria, pregnant Doria, made a pretty tough competitor, plus she had the advantage of seeing Nick daily. Did Eileen stand much of a chance of keeping him?

  Of course I do, she told herself. This is Nick, the love of my life, my husband, for God’s sake. We were made for each other. Could he possibly love this other woman as much as he loves me? Or should I say, as much as he loved me?

  Now, on New Year’s Day, she lay in bed watching him sleep. She’d seduced him twice during the night, touching him until he was wild with desire. Now he was worn out. For the first time ever, she had exaggerated the effect their lovemaking was having; she had put on a bit of a show. There’d never been a need for it before; she had just lain there enjoying the feeling of utter delight building up inside her until it exploded into something that was so exquisite it was beyond description. They would usually arrive at this point together, and so they did last night; twice.

  ‘That was wonderful, darling,’ he whispered the first time.

  ‘That was even better,’ he claimed when they’d made love again at her instigation in the middle of the night.

  She wondered if he was ready for a third time, but decided to let him sleep. At least by now she might have dispelled his belief that she no longer found him attractive. And it looked as if pretty eighteen-year-old Doria hadn’t completely put him off his wife. She would pray, light candles, do everything possible to ensure their relationship returned to the way it had been before he lost his arm.

  She recalled that when she’d become pregnant with Nicky, she and Nick had only made love once and it had seemed like a miracle; last night they had made love twice. She would say more prayers and light more candles in the hope that another miracle might happen.

  Sean Doyle had been spoilt for most of his life. He was a handsome lad with dark gypsy looks and an appealing disposition, and was the apple of his dad’s eye. His mam had died not long after he was born, and his elder sisters, Eileen and Sheila, adored him. In their eyes he could do no wrong.

  Though neither his dad nor his sisters had approved when Sean fell in love with pretty Alice Scully, who had a serious limp, five younger brothers and sisters and a mother at death’s door.

  They disapproved even more when Sean and Alice married not long after he had been called up and joined the Royal Air Force. He was only just nineteen and Alice two years younger. Mrs Scully had died not long afterwards and Sean had taken the entire family under his wing. By a stroke of good fortune, the family had acquired the best house in Pearl Street, number 5, which had once belonged to Jessica Fleming and was the only one with an electric stove. It was there that Alice had given birth to their first child, a boy called Edward, who was now fourteen months old, and who his father had so far never set eyes on.

  Everyone missed sunny, good-natured Sean: his wife, his dad, his sisters. But, as they said to each other every time his name came up, which was usually several times a day, ‘Knowing our Sean, he’ll be having a grand old time in the RAF.’

  They were wrong.

  Sean had been surprised to find he didn’t much like being in the forces. He had always considered himself to be as popular with the men as with the girls. He’d had loads of mates at work, yet he didn’t really fit in the RAF. His problem was he took it much too seriously. He wasn’t able to treat death as lightly as the other men.

  He had trained to be an airframe fitter, and at the present time was responsible for the mechanics of the aircraft operating from Hal Far airfield in Malta, where he’d been posted almost a year ago. By then, most of the heavy raids inflicted on the island by the German air force had ceased. The siege of Malta was over and it wasn’t quite such a dangerous place to be.

  Not that death worried Sean; he wasn’t a coward. If he was killed, then it was what fate had in store for him. His dad and his sisters would look after Alice and the son he had never seen. After all, Alice had coped before he came on the scene and she’d cope again if he was no longer there.

  Sean had grown up, become a man, without realising how desperately vile and cruel war could be. It was hard to watch the Spitfire pilots, some younger than him, flying off to provide protection for the planes that were bombing Italy, knowing that a large number would not be coming back. Some even laughed as they flew off to almost certain death. There was a phrase for it, ‘like lambs to the slaughter’. It upset Sean almost to the point of tears – tears that he had to keep well hidden.

  It was such a terrible waste of lives. It was heinous, it was murder, it was crazy. When he witnessed the air raids, whether from close by or at a distance, he wasn’t just aware of the planes flying overhead, the sound of the explosions as the bombs landed; he visualised the casualties, the blood and the mutilated bodies, the families being torn apart, the hideousness of it all. He couldn’t get his head around men committing murder; not just the Germans, but his own side too, who were terrorising enemy cities night after terrible night.

  After a while, he realised he should have been a conscientious objector. But he wouldn’t have had the courage. His dad would never have been able to hold his head up in Bootle again if people had known how his son felt. There wasn’t a single person he could confide in about his feelings.

  He was regarded as a quiet young man, a bit withdrawn, who kept himself to himself. He wouldn’t have dreamt of accompanying his comrades to a brothel, sleeping with another woman when Alice was waiting for him at home. Instead of the life and soul of any gathering that he had once been, he had become a rather stuffy, sanctimonious sort of person that his younger self wouldn’t have cared for.

  Sean didn’t know exactly what date it was, only that it was early in January and the year was 1944. The dawn sky in Malta was dark blue, though the blue was fading fast along with the stars. A pink blush had appeared on the horizon. The sloppily shaped moon seemed to be blinking on and off as if it held a message for him in code. At least he could still appreciate beauty. It seemed odd for it to be so lovely and warm in January when back in Bootle it would be freezing.

  By now, all was quiet. Forty-three aircraft had taken off around midnight, and thirty-seven had returned, one with a badly damaged propeller, which had been removed. The men, including Sean, who’d been on night duty would stay until eight o’clock, when the day shift took over and they could go back to their quarters and sleep. In the meantime, there was always the hope that the missing aircraft might still turn up. So far, there’d been no radio contact.

  Sergeant Ellis, who was in charge, needed two men to go and collect a new propeller from the stores a few miles inland.

  ‘If you go now, the roads will be clear and we can get it fitted by tonight. Later, you could get stuck behind a bloody horse and cart the whole way there and back. There’s bound to be a religious festival of some sort.’ There were religious festivals for one saint or another virtually every day in Malta.

  The sergeant scanned the group of rather bored men, all anxious for a kip. ‘Doyle, you can drive, and Maitland, you go with him. While you’re there, you can fill the truck up with petrol.’

  Sean’s heart sank. He couldn’t stand Alfie Maitland, a loud-mouthed individual who was incapable of having a conversation without peppering it with four-letter words. Even worse, he was a drinker and had been swigging rum all night, as was his habit, something the sergeant was unaware of.

  ‘I’ll go with Doyle, if that’s all right, Sarge,’ offered Bernie Roberts, who was a far more reasonable human being and also a sort of friend of Sean’s. He winked at him now.

  But Sergeant Ellis turned down the offer. Having made his decision, he wanted it followed to t
he letter.

  Neither Sean nor Maitland spoke much on the way to the maintenance unit. The other man made a few remarks that Sean regarded as inane, and rather crude, while continuing to sip at his bottle of rum.

  When they reached the unit, Sean drove through the open doors of a large hangar to the part where he knew the propellers were stored. The night staff were on duty, and a couple of them had appeared by the time Sean braked. He handed over the chit Sergeant Ellis had made out, and the new propeller was quickly secured on the back of the truck, a blade protruding from each side.

  ‘You’d best get in the back,’ Sean said gruffly to Maitland. ‘Make sure the propeller doesn’t fall off.’ No matter how well it had been tied on, it could work loose as the truck was driven along the island’s bumpy dirt roads.

  ‘Get stuffed, Doyle.’ And to everyone’s surprise, Maitland leapt into the truck and sat behind the steering wheel. When Sean attempted to drag him out, he started the engine and the truck began to move, in desperation, not wanting to be left behind, Sean managed to pull himself on to the back with the propeller.

  ‘Hang on!’ yelled one of the maintenance men as Maitland picked up speed and drove like a maniac towards the doors of the hangar. They had been opened wide enough to allow the truck in, but weren’t wide enough to let it out now that it had a propeller loaded on the back.

  ‘Stop, you bloody idiot!’ screamed the man.

  Maitland responded with a jubilant yell as the cab of the truck burst through the hangar doors. The blades of the propeller were caught on both sides with such force that the rope securing it snapped, and it was thrown off the back of the truck, Sean with it.

  And then everything went black.

  Chapter 11

  Kate had had a lovely time in Norfolk, and was thrilled because she’d heard from Lily, her eldest daughter.