by Maureen Lee
‘But maybe he merely came to say ta-ra or something,’ Eileen said reasonably. ‘Or to tell her he was sorry for what he’d done. Any minute now, thousands of Allied troops are expected to be sent to France. Perhaps he had a premonition and expects to be killed.’
‘Do you think I might have changed the course of Kitty’s life?’ Phyllis looked pathetically at the older woman. ‘I felt terrible afterwards, as if I thought I was God.’
Eileen stared into space for almost a minute before saying, ‘On reflection, I think I might have done the same.’ Phyllis breathed a sigh of relief, but Eileen continued. ‘I think we would both have been wrong. If Kitty had given up George for the American, in my view she would have been making the biggest mistake of her life, as well as breaking George’s heart. But people should be left to make their own mistakes without interference, no matter how well meant it is.’ She suddenly smiled. ‘Does that make you feel better?’
‘Yes, it does.’ Phyllis smiled back and said, ‘There’s something else.’
‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,’ Eileen complained. ‘You make me feel like some wise old woman solving the problems of the young. Perhaps I should set meself up in a tent with a crystal ball and start telling fortunes for a living. Have you been acting like God again?’
‘Sort of. It’s about my dad. The thing is, he didn’t lose his memory; he’s in Bootle, alive and well, living in Chaucer Street with a younger woman and working in a pub in Seaforth. I only found out by accident.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know what to do about it. I haven’t told my mum.’
‘Bloody men!’ Eileen gasped. ‘Look, luv, I think your dad has to sort this out himself. If he intends getting back with your mam, then he should do it in the least hurtful way possible. If I were you, I’d keep out of it, for the time being at least.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Phyllis said meekly. ‘Thank you, Eileen.’
Freda Tutty scowled when she answered the door to Eileen’s knock. She was growing to be quite tall, and her hair looked nice and wavy out of its usual tight plaits.
‘Hello, luv,’ Eileen said in her friendliest voice. ‘I’ve been staying with me dad for a little while and I thought I’d call on you before I go back home. I just wondered how you were getting on?’
‘I’m all right,’ Freda said churlishly.
‘And how about your mam and Dicky?’ Freda and Dicky had been evacuated to Southport at the beginning of the war, and it was because Eileen had been dispatched by their mother to fetch them back that she had first spoken to Nick Stephens, a day so precious in her mind that she would remember it for as long as she lived.
‘They’re both all right too,’ Freda confirmed grudgingly.
‘Brenda Mahon said you had this dead handsome lodger for a while; Tom something.’
‘Chance, Tom Chance,’ Freda said through gritted teeth. ‘He left ages ago.’
‘Yes, Brenda said. It’s just that she also said you’d written an essay at school about the history of Liverpool and it was published in the Bootle Times.’ Eileen longed to get a smile out of the girl. ‘You must have been very proud.’
Freda’s demeanour changed instantly for the better, though she didn’t smile. ‘Yes, I was, Mrs Stephens; very proud.’
‘We were wondering, me, Brenda and our Sheila, if you wouldn’t mind taking us and the kids for that walk of yours, around the Seven Streets. Would tomorrer be convenient? We could go somewhere for a cup of tea when it’s over.’
A smile at last. ‘Oh, Mrs Stephens!’ Freda cried. ‘I’d love to.’
They left Pearl Street at nine o’clock the next morning, Eileen and Nicky, Brenda and her girls, Sheila’s entire brood, Lena Newton and Phyllis Taylor. They caught a tram into the city, where the small procession marched as far as High Street.
Freda stopped. ‘This used to be called Juggler Street,’ she announced in a loud voice. ‘Now it’s High Street. The seven old streets are shaped like an H and this one is at the centre. There was a time, hundreds of years ago, when Liverpool only consisted of these seven streets.’
‘Why was it called Juggler Street?’ Niall asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Freda admitted. ‘I’ve never been able to find out.’
Niall suggested that perhaps a juggler lived there and Freda agreed that that could well have been the case.
The procession continued up Tithebarn Street, down Dale Street, along Castle Street, over to Water Street, back down Chapel Street and across to Old Hall Street.
It was a lovely day, the sort that the people of Liverpool swore only occurred in their city and nowhere else. It was as if magic stardust was in the air, making everywhere shimmer and shine. Buildings glowed, the pavements glistened, the sky looked more silver than blue.
Without thinking, the children began to march in rhythm, and every now and then people would join the little procession before eventually drifting away. Dominic Reilly and Monica Mahon, hand in hand near the front, began to sing, ‘There’ll be bluebells over the white cliffs of Dover …’ Eileen and Lena brought up the rear, making sure no one from the group went astray.
They passed stately banks and elegant office buildings; shops selling stationery and men’s clothes; the odd hotel and the occasional public house; restaurants in cellars, and bomb sites where buildings had once been and people had worked, but no more.
Whenever Freda, stopped to explain precisely where they were, a small crowd would also stop and listen. Sometimes she would receive a burst of applause. She became a different Freda altogether, taller and quite pretty, full of confidence. By the time the march finished, she was linking arms with Phyllis Taylor and they appeared to be the best of friends.
Eventually they arrived at the Pier Head, where the Mersey shone so brilliantly it looked like a river of diamonds. There was a café not far away, and Eileen treated everyone to a drink and a cake if they wanted it.
After the drinks had been drunk and the cake eaten, they all got on a tram and returned to Pearl Street.
It was sad that she and Nicky would be leaving her dad on his own again when she returned to the cottage the following day. Eileen could tell he’d enjoyed their company, and he’d taught Nicky how to play dominoes. Although Sheila did as much as she could for her dad, she had seven children to look after, as well as a husband when Calum was home. She did his washing and made him the occasional pie or cake, but she wasn’t there to greet him when he came home from work or keep him company while he listened to the ten o’clock news and drank his bedtime cup of cocoa.
Eileen had really made a fuss of her dad, cooking his favourite meals – as far as rationing would allow – and even making him two jars of pineapple jam, hoping he wouldn’t notice that it was made out of swedes and not pineapples.
She wondered whether, if she and Nick didn’t get back together – and he didn’t want his cottage back – she would choose to return to Pearl Street.
No, she decided. She could never bring herself to deliberately deprive her father of the beautiful garden.
Anyroad, she thought as she lay in bed on her last night in her father’s house, Nicky snoring lightly at her side, it had been a really lovely holiday and she’d enjoyed herself no end.
She didn’t realise that the best was yet to come.
Alice was getting ready for Mass. Sometimes she considered taking Sean with her. He could easily walk that far, even if he didn’t know where he was going and wouldn’t realise he was in a church. But people would talk to him, want to shake his hand, confuse him. They might even be rude if he didn’t answer their questions. Occasionally she would take him for a tiny walk when it was dark, but only when there was moonlight and they could see where they were going.
Even though he ate little, he was getting better, but only physically. There was no change in his expression, no light in his lovely brown eyes.
That morning she came downstairs with him following behind. She sat him in his chair, made tea and gave him a cup, putting it in
both his hands. Then, after removing the metal fireguard, she began to light the fire, despite it being a nice sunny day.
Lighting fires in good weather irritated Alice no end. She knew it was possible to heat water by clicking a switch in a cupboard, but not in Pearl Street, where a fire was the only method. Being Sunday, her sisters and the one brother still living at home would all want baths that afternoon.
Edward began to cry, so she went upstairs and fetched him down, placing him under the table where he liked to play, then continued with the fire, putting a rolled-up newspaper in the grate, some kindling, a few lumps of coal on top, then lighting a match and setting fire to the paper. Upstairs, her sisters, Colette and Bessie, began to squabble. They shared a double bed and had terrible fights over one or the other taking up too much space.
There was a scream, followed by a loud crash, and Alice swore under her breath. Bessie had probably kicked Colette out of bed again and really hurt her. This was proven to be the case when Colette began to cry loudly and yelled, ‘Alice.’
‘Coming,’ Alice shouted back. Bessie was older and bigger than Colette and had always been a bit of a bully. Alice was having no more of it.
She went up the stairs faster than most women with normal legs, picked up Colette by the collar of her nightdress, threw her on to the bed, then turned on Bessie and punched her on the nose.
‘Do that again and you’re out this house for ever,’ she yelled.
Downstairs, Sean heard the sounds somewhere at the back of his mind, though they made no sense. Inside his head was made up of absolutely nothing that meant anything.
He was only vaguely aware of the shadowy figure of a small boy emerging on all fours from beneath the table. It was probably a dream – he had dreams all the time. With the help of a chair, the boy pulled himself to his feet, then approached Sean and attempted to climb on to his knee, but gave up when he wasn’t picked up. He chuckled and looked around the room, still holding on to Sean’s leg, but there was no sign of his mother. There was, however, something lovely and bright, something flickering playfully almost within reach.
He released Sean’s leg and had taken a few careful steps towards the fire, reaching out his tiny hand towards the flames, when there came the most tremendous yell, which was heard by almost half of Pearl Street.
‘NO! ’ roared Sean. ‘NO, NO, NO.’
‘Edward! ’ screamed Alice from upstairs, and nearly fell all the way down to reach her son. She found Sean kneeling on the floor, crying his eyes out, with Edward clasped in his arms. The little boy looked too astonished to cry.
‘Sean, darlin’,’ she said softly, kneeling beside them both. ‘Oh, Sean!’
Sean looked at her. Nothing was making sense. ‘Where am I?’
‘You’re home, darlin’,’ Alice whispered. ‘Safe at home.’
An hour later, Colette turned up at Jack Doyle’s house. Eileen had just returned from Mass and was packing ready to go back to the cottage later in the afternoon.
‘Our Alice wants Jack round ours straight away. It would seem that Sean is himself again,’ Colette announced.
Jack was upstairs preparing himself for a Sunday session at the King’s Arms. ‘Dad!’ Eileen screeched. ‘Our Sean’s better. Let’s get round there straight away.’
‘Alice only wants Jack for now.’ Colette tossed her head. ‘She said you and your Sheila can come later. She doesn’t want to confuse him with too many new faces – that’s exactly what she said.’
Eileen believed it. Alice was a bossy little madam. Still, she only had Sean’s welfare at heart. Her father came storming downstairs and shot out of the house at the speed of light, leaving Eileen to continue her packing.
Eileen and Sheila were allowed to see Sean later that afternoon.
‘He received a shock to his system,’ Alice diagnosed. ‘When faced with Edward about to put his hand in the fire, all his feelings came back in a rush and now he’s himself again.’
Not quite himself, Eileen and Sheila thought afterwards when they discussed their brother between them. His face was too pale, his brain not what it should be, his voice – after the initial roar – little more than a whisper. This was Sean at a very low key, a Sean who actually cried at one point.
‘Oh, but he’ll get better,’ Sheila said, more as if to reassure herself than anyone else.
‘He’s bound to get better,’ Eileen agreed in the same sort of voice.
Later that evening, back at the cottage, everywhere felt slightly damp, so Eileen lit fires to warm the place up a bit. Nicky collected all his toys together, put them on the settee and played with them one by one, as if he’d missed them. Napoleon jumped on Eileen’s knee and allowed her to stroke him for almost an hour, after which he jumped off and became his old arrogant, unfriendly self again.
It wasn’t until she was listening to the BBC news on the wireless that she remembered Nick’s letter and retrieved it from the drawer in the telephone table. She guessed he’d written it after he’d gone back to that awful flat in Fulham and discovered that Doria had left, but it was hard to tell. He merely said that he had decided to leave his job and was unsure what he wanted to do next. He advised her not to write to Birdcage Walk – she recalled bitterly that he’d never told her he’d left there, or about the flat in Fulham – and said he would get in touch as soon as he had acquired a new address.
‘Look after yourself and Nicky, my dear Eileen. I look forward to this damn war being over and life returning to normal again. Yours, Nick.’
It wasn’t a romantic letter, not the sort of letter a wife should expect from a husband when they didn’t see each other very often. Well, she couldn’t reply, and would do her utmost not to write letters in her head until the time came when she could put one down on paper and send it to him.
She put the letter away and went upstairs. Tomorrow morning she’d change the bedclothes in the spare room so that it would be ready for the next time someone came to stay, though she didn’t envisage having a visitor at any time in the near future.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter 15
Nick wrote a letter to the owners of the flat in Fulham to tell them he was leaving. He put it on the table in the spot where last week Doria had left her letter saying she was going back to her parents in Wimbledon, then threw a few of his oldest clothes in a travelling bag; it was simpler to carry than a suitcase. He was neither glad nor sorry that she had gone. She had told him in her letter not to hesitate to join her in Wimbledon should he so desire.
Well, Nick didn’t desire it, not at all. Her parents were a stuffy, old-fashioned pair. Although they pretended not to care that he wasn’t married to the daughter he’d made pregnant, he sensed that they cared very much, and that if it hadn’t been hurtful to Doria, they would have told him to go to hell.
He thought it would probably be all right that he had packed in his job. It wasn’t very important – in fact he’d always thought it had been invented as a favour to compensate him for the lose of his arm. He had telephoned the supervisor earlier and announced he was leaving, ignoring the spluttered comment that he was supposed to work four weeks’ notice. He never wanted to sit at a desk again; it was slowly driving him mad, as was wearing sensible dark suits every day. It wasn’t as if he needed the money. He’d been left money by his grandfather that would last for years. He supposed he should invest it in something that would earn interest, rather than just leaving it in the bank in a current account.
He’d do that very soon, he decided. He put his most important papers in the side pocket of the bag and left the flat. There was a bus stop across the road where a few people were waiting. A bus approached and he ran to catch it. He had no idea where it was going, or where he wanted to go. Were any farms interested in taking on a one-armed labourer? He climbed the stairs, sat at the front and wondered where it would take him.
It was a lovely sunny, blowy day. Eileen had washed the bedding from the spare room and was p
egging it on the line when she heard the knock on the door. She dropped the remainder of the sheets in the laundry basket, checked that Nicky was happily riding his little three-wheeler bike up and down the concrete path, and went to answer it.
At first she didn’t recognise the very pregnant young woman standing outside, until she said, rather impatiently, ‘Hello, Eileen.’
‘Doria!’ she gasped. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Can I come in first?’ the girl said irritably. ‘I’ve walked all the way from the station for the second day in a row and I’m tired out. They don’t seem to have taxis in this neck of the woods.’
‘Come in.’
Doria picked up a suitcase and entered the house. ‘I came yesterday,’ she said, somewhat aggressively, ‘and you weren’t here.’ She was clearly in a very bad mood. ‘I had to stay in a horrid hotel, the Railway Inn, or something.’
‘Well I didn’t know you were coming, did I?’ Eileen was dismayed at her attitude. Last week they had parted friends. Why had it changed?
She soon found out. ‘Mummy and Daddy were thrilled to have me back,’ Doria explained after she had collapsed into an armchair with a sigh, ‘but they insisted I have the baby adopted. When I found myself pregnant, I actually considered getting rid of it, but after us living together all this time – me and baby, that is – I wouldn’t dream of parting with him, or her. And I had to keep myself hidden while I lived at home. No one must know I’m “in the family way”, as Mummy put it. I never realised they were so old-fashioned. If we had visitors, I was supposed to take myself upstairs.’
‘Has Nick been in touch?’
‘No, Nick has not been in touch,’ Doria said crossly. ‘I telephoned the office the other day and was told he had left without working his notice, just a phone call, that’s all. They’re very angry with him there, as are Mummy and Daddy.’