by Maureen Lee
Put Out the Fires
Maureen Lee
1940—the cruellest year of war for Britain’s civilians as the Luftwaffe mercilessly blitz their cities.
In Pearl Street, near to Liverpool’s vital docks, families struggle to cope the best they can. A nasty surprise for ever-cheerful dressmaker Brenda Mahon and flighty Sean’s love for little Alice show how life goes on even when it appears to be falling apart.
Yet while Eileen Costello tries to hide her ruined hopes of happiness with Nick and do her best by the husband she hoped had gone for ever, Ruth Singerman returns having escaped from Austria. But even the joy of seeing her father again cannot make up for the bitter loss of her children . . .
www.orionbooks.co.uk
ORION FICTION
And now for Paul, the second one
In all, Bootle experienced 502 air-raid alerts, the final one on 29 December, 1942. Eighty-five per cent of its buildings were damaged, and 1,886 civilians were killed or injured. This small independent borough, hardly mentioned in the chronicles of the Second World War, suffered by far the highest proportion of deaths per 1,000 of the population on Merseyside. It is very difficult to compare like with like in any examination of the statistics of death by enemy action, but it would appear that Bootle suffered more than any other town in the United Kingdom.
The Home Port, by B. J. Marsh and S. Almond
I would like to express my sincerest thanks to Cathy Hankin, not just for her memories of what happened, but for the research she did on my behalf which helped me to write this book.
Prologue
It was in September 1939 that Adolf Hitler despatched his troops into Poland, and Britain and France were drawn into a war for which neither was prepared. One terrible year later, the seemingly invincible German army had swept brutally across Europe, leaving death and destruction in its wake, until almost the entire continent had been conquered.
Now, separated from the advancing enemy only by the English Channel, Great Britain stood alone . . .
Chapter 1
What had happened to the person who had gazed back at her from the chrome mirror over the mantelpiece in the parlour only that morning; the happy woman with sparkling eyes and fresh pink skin, a woman so obviously and radiantly in love?
Eileen Costello stared thoughtfully at her blurred reflection in the window of the Dock Road pub. The glass had been painted dark inside for the blackout, turning the window into a mirror.
The woman had disappeared, gone forever, to be replaced by someone with lank blonde hair and a pale drawn face and dead, expressionless eyes.
And what had happened to the day that had started off as had no other, the day that was going to be the happiest of her life?
You needed to go back a whole year to work it out, right back to the very day war had been declared and Francis had gone off within an hour of the declaration, looking smart and debonair in his khaki uniform, and suddenly, after six years of marriage, she was free!
It was bliss without his domineering presence. Tony blossomed and stopped jumping at the least sound, and she got a job - something Francis had always forbidden working on a lathe in a munitions factory. Eileen smiled to herself, scarcely noticing she was being jostled by people who came hurrying around the corner. Several glanced curiously at the lovely blonde girl, rather oddly dressed in an old tweed coat that contrasted sharply with her smart straw hat and high-heeled shoes, who was standing on the pavement staring vacantly into a blackened pub window at half past seven on a Saturday evening.
It had been an education working at Dunnings. The conversation that went on between the girls above the sound of the machinery would have made a navvy blush, but she’d grown fond of her workmates and they were almost like a second family.
So, there she was at twenty-six, earning a good wage—more than Francis had ever done—an independent woman in her own right, with control over her own body for the first time in six years. And she was happy, happier than she’d ever been before. In fact, she felt rather guilty that the war, which had brought misery to so many people, had altered her own life out of all proportion for the better.
That was when she decided she didn’t want Francis back.
She knew it would cause a furore in Pearl Street. No self-respecting woman booted her husband out, no matter what the blighter might have been up to - not that anyone, even her own family, knew what went on behind the front door of Number 16. A woman was expected to grit her teeth and make the best of things. But Eileen Costello, flushed with freedom and a newfound sense of her own worth, decided she’d had enough.
There was a rumbling from up above as a train ran along the tracks of the overhead railway in the direction of Liverpool, and a sudden tremendous whooshing sound from inside a nearby warehouse as grain was emptied into a silo. On the Dock Road itself, work seemed to be grinding to a halt. There were slightly fewer people about than before, less bustle.
Of course, Francis wasn’t exactly pleased when she wrote and told him he was no longer welcome at home and neither was her sister, Sheila. Sheila thought wedding vows were for life and you should stick by your man “till death us do part”, though Jack Doyle had taken the news his beloved son-in-law wasn’t all he was cracked up to be surprisingly well. As for Sheila, she soon changed her mind when, last Christmas, Francis came home on leave and forced his way into the house, and she walked in unexpectedly to find her sister being strangled to death with a towel. That was the day the fateful word “divorce” had first been uttered, and now even Sheila approved.
Sheila, who was in the Legion of Mary, and had a house stuffed full of holy pictures and statues, who went to church whenever she had a spare minute - even she didn’t think wedding vows meant you had to spend the rest of your life with a man who’d nearly murdered you. The sisters had decided not to tell their dad about the incident because big Jack Doyle would kill any man who laid a hand on one of his children, and Francis wasn’t worth swinging for.
“Penny for them!”
Eileen nearly fainted. If there’d been any colour left in her cheeks, she felt it drain away as she clutched the windowsill of the pub for support.
“Eh, are you all right?”
She blinked as her arm was grabbed by someone who regarded her with genuine concern, a weedy slip of a boy in a sailor’s uniform whose round hat barely reached her shoulder. “I was miles away,” she muttered. “You gave me a bit of a fright.”
“It’s Eileen, isn’t it? Sean Doyle’s sister?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry . . . ” She felt uncomfortable that he knew her name and she didn’t recognise him from Adam.
He removed his hat to reveal a head of tight carrot coloured curls. His rather sharp features were a mass of orange freckles, and his eyes the green of tinned peas. His unusual fruit and vegetable appearance tugged a cord in her memory. She realised now she’d definitely met him before.
“I was in the same class as your Sean at St Joan of Arc’s. I used to come round to your house in Garnet Street.”
“I remember now,” Eileen cried, for some reason glad of a familiar face just then. “Ronnie Kennedy!”
“You’re almost there.” He seemed gratified she’d remembered.
“It’s Donnie. Donnie Kennedy.”
Eileen frowned. “What are you doing in uniform?”
“I’ve been called up,” he said proudly. “I was eighteen last June. I’ve been down in Portsmouth doing me training. I expect it’ll be your Sean’s turn soon. He’s about six months younger than me.”
“Jaysus! I still think of our Sean as a little boy,” she gasped, horrified. “It hadn’t entered me head he’d be called up soon.”
The mam said much the same,” Donnie nodded. “
She nearly had hysterics when me papers arrived.” Despite the fact he looked little more than a child, he seemed very mature and confident. She vaguely remembered he had been a cocky little bugger when he’d come round to the house to see Sean, and the uniform appeared to have added to his idea of his own importance.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, concerned again. Donnie Kennedy felt rather chuffed at the idea of making a fuss of Sean Doyle’s sister. She was a proper bobby dazzler, and he’d had a bit of a crush on her all those years ago, despite the fact she was so much older and way beyond his reach. “You looked as if you’d seen a ghost when I first spoke.” Then, with a rush of nerve, he jingled the coins in his pocket and said daringly, “Would you like a drink?”
“A drink!” She looked down at him vaguely, as if she’d never heard of such a thing as a drink before. “Not really, but I’d love a ciggie, Donnie, if you’ve got one. I came out without mine.” She’d just snatched a coat off the rack in the hall, desperate to get out of the house and think things through by herself, leaving the mess behind for her dad and Sheila to take care of for the time being.
“Of course!” Donnie fumbled eagerly in his pocket and held out a pack of woodbines She took one gratefully and he struck a match and was about to light it, when she removed the ciggie from her mouth and glanced around uneasily.
Donnie recognised her dilemma immediately. A respectable woman would never be seen smoking on the street. Their eyes met and Eileen smiled ruefully. “I wouldn’t mind a lemonade,” she said, though drinking in a Dock Road pub was almost as bad as smoking in public.
Her dad would have a fit if he found out, but if she didn’t have a smoke soon she’d burst.
It came as a bit of a relief to find you could scarcely see inside the pub, what with the darkened windows and just two gas jets burning behind the bar. She could feel the sawdust scattered on the otherwise bare wooden floor, and once her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, she saw the place was crowded and ducked her head as she made for an empty table tucked out of the way in a corner. Fortunately, the customers, predominantly male, were too engrossed in their conversation to notice her. She removed her coat and lit the cigarette, whilst Donnie went over to the bar for the drinks.
“Penny for them!”
For one painful, exquisite moment she’d thought it was Nick; that he’d come to Bootle searching for her, demanding to know why she’d hadn’t turned up at Exchange Station to meet him as they’d planned. She’d sent Tony along to the station with the news that she couldn’t come and why, but today was to have been the start of their life together. He might want to hear from her own lips the reason for letting him down.
“Penny for them!” His first words. She remembered them as clearly as if he’d spoken five minutes ago, not ten months, and not just the words, but the timbre of his voice, the amused expression in it, the warm smile on his long, sensitive face as he looked down at her in the restaurant in Southport. It had been December, and she was sitting alone by a Christmas tree with the sound of carols in the background. At first, she’d thought he was merely trying to pick her up, but it turned out he lived in Melling and recognised her from Dunnings. Nick Stephens was a scientist, and she’d never in all her life met anyone as grand as a scientist before, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter as they began to fall in love . . .
The memories flooded back for the umpteenth time that day. The Easter weekend in London when they’d first made love, the last night when they’d danced to We’ll Meet Again. Nick had decided it was their song and every time she heard it on the wireless, she thought of him and London. He’d lifted her up and twirled her round and round and round until she felt as if she would disappear altogether because it was so unreal, because it didn’t seem right that anyone should be allowed so much happiness . . .
“Here you are.” Donnie put a glass of lemonade on the table along with a small tot of spirits. “I hope you don’t mind, but you look as if you need it. It’s whisky, a double.”
“Oh, Donnie, you shouldn’t have,” she protested. “I didn’t bring me purse with me, either, I came out in such a rush, so I can’t give you any money.”
“That’s all right,” he said modestly. He didn’t knock on he hadn’t paid for the drinks. Someone at the bar had bought them. Since he’d been in uniform, Donnie had been receiving all the attention he’d always thought he deserved but, owing to his small stature and rather unprepossessing appearance, was aware he never got. Now, not only did he get drinks pressed upon him whenever he entered a pub, but an old lady had actually stood up on the tram into town that day and offered him her seat. “Here you are, son, sit down and take the weight off your feet,” though he’d refused, of course. A barrow girl outside Reece’s Restaurant had given him a big rosy apple and urged him to, “Give that bloody Adolf a kick up the arse from me,” and all sorts of people wanted to shake his hand and thump his shoulder and tell him what a brave fellow he was.
He lit a cigarette, looked Eileen up and down and, plucking up his courage, said in his best man-of-the-world fashion, “You look nice, if you don’t mind me saying. In fact, you look like you’ve been to a wedding.” She wore a pink moygashel suit with a wide belt that accentuated her slim waist.
“I have,” she replied. The friend, Annie Poulson, got married again this afternoon. I was matron of honour.”
Donny’s green eyes widened. “Annie Poulson? Didn’t her lads come through Dunkirk?”
“That’s right, Terry and Joe. It was in the Booth Times”
“I don’t half hope I see some action like that!” He actually sounded envious.
Eileen puffed on her cigarette, suddenly angry. “I reckon your mam would do her nut if she could hear you. Poor Annie nearly went out of her mind -with worry while the lads were in France.”
“Well, women don’t take to war like men,” he said loftily.
“That’s ‘cos they’ve got more sense,’ Eileen replied in a tart voice.
Instead of being hurt at the putdown, Donny felt a sense of exhilaration at the fact that Eileen Doyle - he couldn’t remember her married name - actually considered him mature enough to engage in a proper philosophical discussion about the war. He’d had the same discussion often with his mam, though it usually ended up with her in tears when she was quite likely to give him a swift backhander, uniform or no uniform.
“But we’ve got to stop Hitler,” he ventured. “If we don’t, the whole world will end up under the heel of the Nazi jackboot.” He felt sure she’d be impressed with that, which he’d read in the Daily Herald.
“I know,” she said tiredly and clearly unimpressed. “But there’s no need to get so much enjoyment out of it.”
“I’d certainly enjoy killing a few Germans,” Donny said with relish.
“I’m sure you would. Our Tony’s just as bad, and he’s only six. He goes to bed every night with a toy gun under his pillow.”
“I won’t have a gun of me own, seeing as I’ve trained to be a signalman.”
He sounded wistful, and Eileen hid a smile as she began to sip the whisky. “Never mind. Signalman sounds very responsible, probably one of the most important jobs on the ship.”
“I reckon so,” he said, nodding gravely. “Drink doing you good, like?”
“I think it is.” The whisky felt warm and rather comforting as it slipped down, and she began to relax.
“Take a good mouthful,” Donnie advised, so she did, and he began to imagine telling his mates when he went on board ship next day about the lovely blonde, a real stunner and married to boot, whom he’d taken out the night before. “We had a few drinks, then . . . ” He stopped, because he couldn’t visualise Eileen Doyle doing anything other than finishing the drink and going home. Still, he could make up a good story by tomorrow to impress them all. He began to wonder exactly what was wrong. What was she doing on the Docky when she’d just been to a wedding, and why had she been standing outside the pub looking so lost and al
one? She’d nearly jumped out of her skin when he spoke.
“I was planning on moving house today,” she said suddenly. “A friend of mine’s got this lovely cottage in Melling - that’s where I work,” she explained, “in Dunnings, the munitions factory. I was hoping to get away from the air-raids.” “I’d hate to come back and find you and Tony weren’t here for me,” Nick had said when she protested she didn’t want to leave her family.
“Why didn’t you?” asked Donnie.
“I missed the train,” she said, then, as if realising this wasn’t an adequate explanation, added in a tight anguished voice, “Something came up.” She finished the whisky in a single gulp.
“Would you like another?”
“No, ta,” she said firmly. The head already feels as if it belongs to someone else.”
Donnie began to run his finger anxiously around the top of his glass. “I won’t half be worried about me mam and dad and our Clare when I’m away at sea, what with the raids getting worse and worse. There were three hundred killed in London last Saturday.” According to his mam, a night hadn’t passed without the siren going since the beginning of September. “That was a right old pounding Bootle got on Tuesday.”
“Well,” said Eileen with a hard smile, “that’s merely another aspect of the war which you men are so fond of.”
She didn’t wait for his reply, but went on, “I have a friend, a scientist, who had a good deferred job in Kirkby. He would have been quite safe till the war was over. ‘Stead, he insisted on joining the RAF. The last few months he could have been killed any minute . . . ’ She broke off. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of young pilots had died as the Luftwaffe tried to wipe the British Air Force off the face of the earth in a terrible battle of attrition, but not Nick. At least not so far. He was, for the moment, quite safe and sound in Melling, perhaps still hoping she’d turn up.
Donnie had been well to the fore in the queue when brains were handed out, and he began to put two and two together. She had a “friend” with a cottage in Melling, and another who’d joined the RAF. Some sixth sense told him the friends were one and the same person and Eileen Doyle was almost certainly having an affair, which gave her an added air of mystery and only made her more seductive in his eyes. He glanced at her keenly. The whisky had brought a flush to her smooth cheeks. She was a bit too wholesome to be termed beautiful; there was a touch of the farmer’s daughter in her fresh, regular features and creamy hair which she wore in an unusual style, not permed like most women, but dead straight and in a fringe on her forehead, though her dad, big Jack Doyle, had probably been no nearer the countryside than his own. Her soft violet-blue eyes were moist, as if she might cry any minute. He felt a strong rush of sympathy and thought, somewhat wryly, that even if Eileen Doyle undressed on the spot and offered herself to him, he would turn her down, because she was too upset to know what she was doing and probably slightly drunk. He racked his brains to remember who she was married to. What was he like?
