by June Francis
‘Yes, I’m out, too,’ said Sam.
‘When’s Dad due home?’ asked Jeanette.
‘I don’t know,’ said Hester.
Jeanette sighed.
‘You can always put a chair under the door handle on the inside,’ said Sam.
‘We shouldn’t need to take such measures,’ said Jeanette angrily.
‘No, we shouldn’t,’ said Sam, grim-faced. ‘Dad should be tougher with her. I’m really fed up of her.’
Hester said, ‘You can’t change people.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Jeanette, picking up her plate of food and putting it back in the oven to heat up. ‘So what are you going to do, Sam? Leave home?’
He hesitated. ‘I thought of it but she’ll think she’s won if I do that.’
It was not until he finished his meal and lit another cigarette that he spoke again, his voice harsh. ‘I might have thought twice about eating my supper if she’d cooked it after our row.’
‘You really think she’d poison you?’ Jeanette was astounded.
‘A lot of murders take place in families,’ said Sam.
‘But aren’t they generally crimes of passion?’ said Jeanette.
‘I think she’s always hated me with a passion,’ said Sam, his eyes hard as he gazed at his sisters through the cigarette smoke.
‘She hates me, too,’ said Jeanette, frowning.
‘And me,’ said Hester. ‘It makes you wonder why she stays around.’
‘Where else would she go?’ said Sam. ‘In all the years she’s lived with us, I’ve never heard mention of any friends.’
‘That’s because she’s a nasty bit of work. I suppose it’s her having been a prison wardress that makes her the way she is,’ said Hester.
‘They can’t all be like that,’ said Jeanette. ‘Maybe she was always a bit of a bully? For reasons we don’t know she could have hated her sister because she was pretty and then envied her having a husband and child.’
‘Talking of violent old women, you’ll never guess what happened today,’ said Hester, getting the biscuit tin from a cupboard. ‘A friend of mine arrested a seventy-two-year-old widow for slashing clothes in Marks and Sparks with a pair of scissors.’
Sam said, ‘Did she give a reason why she did it?’
‘Not that I know.’
‘I reckon they’ll put it down to nerves and senility,’ said Sam. ‘She could have lost her husband in the Great War and possibly sons in World War Two.’
‘Maybe Aunt Ethel did have a fella and he was killed at the front, and that made her resentful of those who still had husbands and explains why she finds it difficult to love people,’ mused Jeanette.
Sam rolled his eyes.
‘I think she might love Dad,’ said Hester.
Jeanette stood up. ‘I’m not so sure about that. I’m going to listen to the wireless and forget about her. Ray’s a Laugh is on soon.’
‘I think I’ll listen with you before I go out,’ said Hester. ‘I could do with cheering up. You all right on your own, Sam?’
‘Of course I am,’ he said shortly.
Sam drank his tea and then took Carol’s remaining letters upstairs. There had been a time, just after Carol was killed, when he could not bear reading them. He sat on his bed and unfolded one of them, noticing that the ink was fading in places. It was bad enough that his great-aunt had destroyed several, without the knowledge that one day soon he might not be able to read those he still possessed. Why had she had to go and burn them? It mattered, even though he knew the contents off by heart.
He sighed, thinking if only Carol had stuck to their original plan, which was for him to visit her at her aunt’s smallholding near Ormskirk, she would still be alive. According to her aunt she had been missing Liverpool and had planned to surprise him. What so upset him was that he had never got to see her when she did arrive in Liverpool. She had been killed before he discovered about her plan to visit. He gazed down at Carol’s neat copperplate handwriting and thought he must find another hiding place for the letters.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering, despite what he had said to his sisters, whether it was time for him to move on and find himself not only a place of his own – not easy with the housing situation being what it was – but a wife as well. He had begun to yearn for the comfort that only a woman could provide. He had been having dreams about Dorothy Wilson, who had been Carol’s best friend, that just wouldn’t go away. He had briefly caught sight of a woman coming out of the stage door at the Playhouse a short while ago and had been convinced it was Dorothy. If he had not been in a rush, he just might have checked her out there and then. Maybe it was guilt that had prevented him from visiting the theatre later to see if it really was her.
He closed his eyes and the memory of the younger Dorothy’s face impressed itself against his eyelids. He imagined burying himself in her soft feminine body and could almost smell the sweet fragrance of Pond’s face cream and ‘Evening in Paris’ scent. She had been slightly older than Carol. His heart began to race. She was smiling eagerly at him and her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her hair was the colour of ripening wheat, a lighter shade than his own, but hers had a silky texture to it that his lacked. He remembered how it had brushed against his bare chest. They should never have done what they did, but both of them had been hurting, so they had spent that May evening of Carol’s funeral in Dorothy’s parents’ bed, whilst her mother was at the munitions factory and her father in the army on the south coast.
He remembered how Dorothy had encouraged him to let himself go, despite his attempts to hold back. At least from the noises she had made he knew that she had got pleasure from the act. Maybe that was why afterwards they had avoided meeting again? Eventually, he heard that she was carving out an acting career for herself and was on tour with a theatrical company. He had worried briefly that she might have got pregnant, but obviously she had been OK or she would have been in touch.
A wry smile twisted his mouth, remembering how she had talked about one day seeing her name up in lights. At least she hadn’t given up on her dream. He would like to see her again but had no idea where she was right now. Maybe he should visit her widowed mother? That was if she was still alive. He had not been able to face her after having spent a couple of hours in her bed with Dorothy and so had avoided the street where she lived for years.
‘Are you all right, Sam?’
Hester’s voice startled him and he banged his head on the headboard as he sat up. ‘Damn!’ he groaned, rubbing the sore spot. ‘Did you have to shout so loud?’
‘Were you asleep?’
‘Almost,’ he lied, yawning loudly. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you about something our Jeanette’s just told me.’
‘Is it important?’
‘I think so, but if you’d rather I left you alone . . .’
There was a note in her voice that caused him to roll off the bed and open the door. ‘No, it’s OK. Come in.’
Hester entered the room and rested her hands on the foot of the bed. ‘Jeanette went to see that priest!’
‘What priest?’
‘The priest who was at the chippy!’
Sam stared at her. ‘I suppose she’s hoping she can make contact with that bloke who was hit in the face?’
‘Too right she is,’ said Hester.
‘So what did he have to say?’
‘Apparently the bloke was in a rush that evening to see his father who was seriously ill in hospital.’
‘Do we have his name?’
‘David Jones.’
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Now there’s a name that’s two a penny. So when is she planning on seeing him?’
‘She’s not because he didn’t put an address on his letter to the priest. Apparently his father died and he’s helping his mother move house.’ Hester smiled. ‘Interesting, though, that his name is David Jones. The couple I stayed with when I was evacuated were called Jon
es. If you remember I wrote to Myra for a while but then she stopped writing. I’ve always regretted losing touch with her. She had a nephew called David. He called a couple of times at the house, so it’s possible it’s the same person.’
‘So what are you planning on doing? Writing to Myra Jones to see if, by the strangest coincidence, her nephew is Jeanette’s David Jones?’
Hester’s face fell. ‘You think it’s a daft idea?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
She gnawed on her lip. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance.’
‘Why should you think you’d be a nuisance?’
‘Aunt Ethel said that was why Myra stopped writing – because she couldn’t be bothered with me. Do you
think—?’
‘Do I think the old cow was jealous of your relationship with her? It wouldn’t surprise me if she destroyed Myra’s letters to stop you writing to her,’ said Sam.
For a moment Hester was too choked to speak, and then she managed to say, ‘I’ve no proof.’
‘What’s that matter? Write to the woman and see what she has to say.’
Hester took a deep breath and there was a militant light in her eyes. ‘I will!’
‘Good on you, girl,’ said Sam, smiling.
‘I won’t mention it to Jeanette unless I hear back. She told me she’s going to the Grafton on Saturday with that friend of hers, Peggy McGrath.’
‘The one that was really the cause of all the trouble in the chippy?’ said Sam, shaking his head.
‘Should we try and put a stop to her going?’
Sam hesitated. ‘No. She’s rebellious enough as it is, and we don’t want her to think we’re siding with Aunt Ethel against her. She’s told you what she’s planning on doing, so let’s be happy with that and hope she’s got enough common sense to stay out of trouble this time.’
‘Jeannie, is this yours?’ Mrs Cross held up the oiled cloth bag containing a frock and sensible low-heeled shoes.
Jeanette looked up from wiping a table top. ‘Yes, Mrs Cross. I hope you don’t mind my leaving it in the back, only I’m going dancing this evening at the Grafton and I didn’t want to go home first.’
A young man over by the jukebox glanced her way and for a moment she thought he was going to speak, but then he looked away and put a coin in the slot and the next moment the strains of ‘Three Coins in the Fountain’ sung by Frank Sinatra came flooding out. Earlier she had thought the young man looked vaguely familiar.
‘I love this, don’t you?’ said a girl seated at a table near the window. She and the young man had entered the milk bar about a quarter of an hour ago and ordered milk shakes and sticky buns. Jeanette had heard him call her Irene.
‘I’ve seen the film,’ said Mrs Cross. ‘You should go and see it, Jeanette. It’s almost as good as a holiday, and much cheaper. You can imagine yourself in Rome. Louis Jourdan who plays a prince is so handsome, you wouldn’t believe it.’
‘He’s a bit of a playboy in it, though,’ said Irene. ‘I preferred Rossano Brazzi myself. I’ve never seen him in anything else before but he’s a real dish.’
‘I’d like to go to Italy,’ said Jeanette. ‘My brother’s saving up for a car and he was talking about going abroad.’
‘I’ve an older friend at the art school who’s hoping to go to Italy to study next year,’ said Irene.
‘Lucky her!’ said Jeanette. But before she could continue the conversation another girl entered.
She was pretty with pale ginger hair, a slender figure, and was wearing a swagger jacket and a straight skirt in dark green gaberdine. Accompanying her were two young men who were good looking and so alike that they had to be twins. One of them had a limp. ‘So you and Jimmy made it then,’ said the girl, walking over to the table where Irene sat.
‘We’re here, aren’t we, Maggie?’ said Irene in a tone of voice that told Jeanette that the other girl was not one of her favourite people. ‘Ciao, you two! I haven’t seen you for a while,’ she nodded to the twins. ‘How’s tricks?’
Jeanette stood over by the counter whilst the three newcomers sat at the table with Irene. She waited a few moments whilst they scrutinized the menu, interested in how they knew each other. Jimmy was still standing next to the jukebox, looking at the list of records. One of the twins beckoned Jeanette and she went over to the table and took their order as ‘Three Coins in the Fountain’ came to an end. Maggie did not seem able to make up her mind. As Jeanette stood waiting, she heard the click of a record dropping and the seductive tones of Alma Cogan singing ‘I Can’t Tell a Waltz from a Tango’ almost had her dancing back to the counter.
‘They’re all so fattening!’ complained Maggie, tossing the menu aside.
‘Stop worrying about your figure, Maggie,’ said Irene. ‘You know you never put a pound on.’
‘That’s because I watch what I eat and care what I look like, unlike my dear cousin.’
Irene frowned. ‘Why bring Betty into this? She’s not fat!’
‘You would say that because you’re not exactly slim either,’ said Maggie bluntly.
‘Don’t you two start,’ said one of the twins. ‘It’s only puppy fat with Irene, and you are too skinny, Maggie.’
She pouted. ‘I have the perfect figure for a model, and when I leave school that’s what I’m going to train to be. Betty’s trouble is that she gobbles down what’s nearest to hand because she can’t be bothered cooking a proper meal when she’s painting.’
‘You could cook her a proper meal,’ said Jimmy, pulling up a chair and sitting next to her.
Maggie shrugged. ‘She won’t eat what I eat.’
‘You can’t blame her for that,’ murmured Irene. ‘And our Jimmy has obviously never tasted your cooking. You can’t cook for toffee, so that’s why you make do with rabbit food and tinned soup.’
Jeanette cleared her throat. ‘Is that it, then?’ she asked.
‘No, I do want something to eat,’ said Maggie hastily. ‘I’ll have a lemon tea and a buttered teacake. But don’t go putting too much butter on the teacake, waitress. Put it on and then scrape it off.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ said Jeanette in a colourless voice, thinking she would have a job scraping off melting butter. The twin with the limp caught her eye and winked. She smiled involuntarily before turning away.
She wasted no time in dealing with their order and carried it over to the table just in time to hear Irene ask, ‘Why aren’t you working today, Pete?’
The twin who had winked now frowned. ‘I’ve been in the office this morning. There’s talk of a possible dockers’ strike. Have you heard anything, Jimmy?’
He nodded. ‘I hope to God it’s not true. They’ll finish Liverpool if they’re not bloody careful. As it is, although the ferries will still be running, a strike will prove a bloody nuisance if the dockers go ahead with it.’
Such talk filled Jeanette with dismay. If the dockers carried on taking such action, she worried that there would soon be no ships coming to Liverpool. Some companies had already transferred to Southampton.
‘Well, if there’s a strike it’s not going to affect me,’ said the other twin, ‘although it will our Pete with him working in a shipping office.’
Jeanette was tempted to tell them it would affect her too, but kept her mouth shut, wondering which shipping office Pete worked in as she placed the bill on the table. As she walked away she heard Jimmy say, ‘So who’s going the Grafton tonight? Did Betty say she’d come?’
Jeanette shot a look at him and wondered if she would see him there.
Seven
‘Can you see any sign of that Jimmy you served in the milk bar?’ asked Peggy, glancing about the ballroom.
Jeanette did not answer, having spotted a vacant table not far from the edge of the dance floor. She claimed one of the chairs and took a sip of her lemonade and gazed about her. Already there were plenty of people dancing to the music of a live band playing a quickstep. She was aware of a simmering excitement, despite bei
ng unable to spot Jimmy amongst those who had taken to the floor or who were sitting out this dance, having a drink and taking in the scene before them.
Then suddenly she spotted him dancing with a girl. ‘There’s Jimmy, with that redhead!’ she cried.
‘Where, where?’ asked Peggy.
Jeanette did not answer, wondering if the redhead could be the Betty mentioned earlier that day. She knew the moment Jimmy spotted her because his eyes widened and then he bent his head and whispered in the girl’s ear. She looked in Jeanette’s direction and smiled. But it was not until the number ended that the couple made their way towards where Jeanette and Peggy were sitting.
‘Hi!’ said Jimmy, smiling. ‘It’s Jeanette, isn’t it? I wondered if I’d see you here.’
‘I felt the same about you,’ she said, returning his smile.
Suddenly one of the twins appeared at his shoulder. ‘Well, if it isn’t the waitress from the milk bar,’ he drawled.
‘I saw her first,’ said Jimmy, his smile vanishing.
Jeanette caught the redhead’s eye and expected her to look annoyed, but she just stood there with a wry smile on her freckled face. ‘Shut up, you two,’ she murmured. ‘If I were you, Jeanette, I’d have nothing to do with either of them. They’re both terrible flirts.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Betty Booth. It’s nice to meet you.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, too,’ said Jeanette, shaking her hand. ‘Are you the Betty studying art?’
‘Don’t get her started on art,’ said the twin, taking out a packet of Players. ‘She’ll be having you visiting the Walker to see her father’s painting next.’
‘Your father has a painting hanging in the Walker Art Gallery!’ Jeanette was really impressed.
Betty flushed. ‘Yes, but no credit to me.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘Now you’ve done it,’ groaned the twin.
Betty turned on him. ‘If you don’t want to listen, then go and dance with our Maggie.’
He ignored her and stared at Peggy. ‘So who’s this?’
‘My name’s Peggy,’ she said, smiling. ‘Me and Jeanette work in the Cunard Building.’
