by Maureen Lee
“I don’t think so,” Eileen said quickly. They knew nothing about Nick, although there’d been rumours she was having an affair. “I’d better be getting indoors,” she said. “Else they’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.”
There was no sign of Francis inside. Her dad and sister were sitting in the living room looking glum.
“Where is he?” Eileen asked.
“Still having a kip.’Jack Doyle regarded his eldest girl keenly. She seemed slightly less upset than when she’d left, more grim than unhappy. He was worried sick about her. It had been obvious that she was head over heels in love with this Nick chap. Nick seemed a decent bloke, if a bit poncey, when Jack first met him. At the “time, he’d thought, “Well, what else can you expect from someone who’s been to Cambridge University?” But since then, Nick had become a Flying Officer in the RAF, a Battle of Britain pilot, one of a generation of young men willing to forfeit their lives to prevent the Luftwaffe claiming mastery of the skies over Britain. Anyroad, he was Eileen’s choice and that was all that mattered. Jack knew what it was like to lose the person you loved. He still grieved for his dear, dead Mollie, despite the fact she’d been gone for more than fifteen years.
The worst thing, though, Jack thought guiltily, was that it was all his fault. Eileen, as soft as a kitten and anxious to please, had only married the bastard upstairs to please her dad. He’d liked the idea of having Francis Costello for a son-in-law, the two were hand in glove when it came to politics; “He’s a good catch, luv, and he really fancies you.” Not only that, she’d put up with him all that time without saying a word.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” she said, “but I met Donnie Kennedy. You’ll never believe it, but he’s in the Royal Navy.”
“Weren’t he in our Sean’s class at school?” You could scarcely see Sheila’s plump comely body for children. She was nursing the youngest, Mary, in one arm, and Ryan, nearly two, in the other. The older girls, Caitlin and Siobhan, were draped somewhat uncomfortably over her knees, both half asleep and sucking their thumbs audibly.
“Aye, that’s right,” confirmed Eileen. It didn’t seem possible that her sunny, goodnatured little brother was nearly old enough to fight.
“Someone said the other day the war’d be over by Christmas,” Sheila said hopefully.
Eileen laughed sardonically. “That’s what they said this time last year, and I reckon they’ll be saying the same thing next September.”
“However long it takes, however many lives, it’s a war that’s got to be fought right through to the end,” Jack Doyle said in a tight voice. “If I were a young man, I’d have joined up like a shot. That Hitler’s got to be stopped. As for our Sean, he couldn’t be in much more danger than he is now, working for the Civil Defence Messenger Service.”
As soon as the air-raid siren sounded, Sean went off on his bike to the nearest ARP Depot, ready to deliver messages if communications broke down. Jack knew if he lost his only son it would break his heart, but so be it, it was a sacrifice worth making. He’d always hated Fascists and everything they stood for. The idea of his country being overrun by Germans with their monstrous creed, of his good friend Jacob Singerman from across the road being carted off to a concentration camp for being a Jew, was an abomination that tilled him with horror. He would not just have willingly laid down his own life and that of his only son, but the lives of his entire family, to prevent it.
“Where’s our Tony gone?” Eileen asked, conscious that the thumping of the football in the yard had ceased.
“I sent him with our Dominic and Niall for some fish and chips,” said Sheila. “The poor kids haven’t had a bite to eat since the reception, what with all the upset. Now you’re back, I’ll feed this lot and get them to bed. Give us a hand, the pair o’yis.”
Eileen took Mary, whilst her dad eased his massive frame out of the chair and reached for Ryan. The little girls groaned and rubbed their eyes sleepily -when they were dislodged from their mam’s knee. “It’s like having a whole bloody school of grandchildren,’Jack grumbled.
“Well, you won’t have any more for the time being, Dad,” Sheila said firmly, “least not off me. Cal’s put his foot down; no more kids till there’s no more war. He said six kids and a wife is already enough to worry about whilst he’s away at sea.”
They carried the children across the street to Number 21. “Send the boys home if they come back to yours, sis,”
Sheila said to Eileen as she was leaving, adding in a whisper, “Don’t forget, there’s always room on the sofa In the parlour for you and Tony if there’s trouble from you-know- who.”
“Ta, Sheil, but I don’t think that’s likely.” What was it Francis had whispered as soon as he’d come home? “I’m sorry about the way things have gone in the past, particularly last Christmas. But I promise I’ll be a good husband from now on. You have my word on that, luv.”
As soon as she was back in her own house, Eileen put the kettle on. “Would you like a cuppa, Dad?” she called when he came in.
“No, ta, I’m parched for a pint. I’ll be off in a minute.
Will you be all right, like?” He nodded upstairs. He was never quite sure what Francis had done to his girl, but it must have been something pretty bad to make her want to leave him, not to have him back. It were nowt to do with Nick at the start. Nick had turned up once the decision had been made. He shuffled his size-twelve boots awkwardly on the shiny oilcloth. “Y’know, luv, you can still see him.”
She knew straight away he meant Nick, and shook her head emphatically. “No, I can’t, Dad.”
His big, swarthy, handsome face flushed. He wasn’t used to discussing intimate matters with anyone, least of all a woman, even if she was his daughter. “I can’t see that it would do any harm,” he protested.
“It wouldn’t be fair on Nick,” she said flatly. “He’s only young, twenty-five. We were going to be married, but how can I go ahead with the divorce under the circumstances?
No, it’s best to set Nick free. He’ll soon get over us and meet someone else.” She quickly went into the back kitchen to hide her face, because the thought of Nick with another woman was more than she could bear.
“You know that’s not true,” her dad said gruffly. He’d never felt so close to his girl as he’d done that day. There’d been times when it seemed as if his own heart was breaking along with hers. He followed her. “Anyroad, I reckon nowt’ll keep Nick away. He’ll be round to Dunnings on Monday looking for you.”
Eileen was already prepared for that eventuality. She’d ask one of the girls to send him away and tell him, for the final time, that it was all over. “Well, he’ll look in vain,” she said briefly.
Jack Doyle persisted, “What about that card he sent with Tony? What did it say?”
“We’ll meet again,” she said in a low voice.
“I reckon you will,” he mumbled. “I reckon you and Nick were made for each other.”
“Oh, Dad!” She gave him a half laughing, half tearful push. “Get away with you! Any minute now you’re going to turn into a beetroot, you’re so red. You’re making me feel dead embarrassed.”
Jack Doyle retreated thankfully to the living room.
“Anyroad, as Sheila said, everything might be over by Christmas.” She might feel differently about leaving Francis then.
“D’you honestly think so?”
He wished he’d kept his big mouth shut. He was as straight as a die, was Jack Doyle, and he would never lie to anyone, let alone his daughter. There was no way, as he saw it, that the war would be over by Christmas. He said gravely, “Well, at least we’re seeing some action since Winston Churchill took over the reins, which was more than we ever had with Chamberlain.”
She came to the door and to his relief she was grinning slightly. “You’re a right ould hypocrite, Dad. I thought you always hated Churchill.”
“Oh, I do,” he nodded firmly, “but it doesn’t mean to say he’s not a good war leader. Not only th
at, we’ve got Attlee as his Deputy, and Ernest Bevin at the Ministry of Labour.
Two good socialists at the very heart of power, though it’s a pity it took a war to get “em there.”
She wrinkled her nose. “All you ever think about is politics.”
“What else is there? What d’you think started the war if it wasn’t politics? Everything’s politics.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“And you’ll hear it again.”
Eileen grinned again. “I know I will, Dad.” She’d been brought up on politics, listened to him, morning, noon and night, sounding off about inequality and injustice.
He’d used her as a sounding board after Mam died when Eileen was fourteen. Sheila, a year younger, was too flighty and never there to listen, and Sean too young. Jack Doyle had been the unpaid representative of the Dockworkers’
Union for as long as she could remember, fighting for workers’ rights with a tenacity and strength of purpose that were the envy of weaker men and a never ending bane to management. The local Labour Party still held their monthly meetings in his parlour. To her shame, the politics went in one ear and out the other, but she was proud of her fiery, charismatic dad, and doubted if there was a better known or more respected man in the whole of Bootle.
“What are you going to do about your job?” he asked. He was pleased she’d taken up war work. “I hope you’re not thinking of giving it up, like, because there’s no need.
Francis seems quite capable to me.”
“Well, I don’t want to leave.” It was bad enough losing Nick, without losing her job as well. “The thing is, what am I to do with Tony now Annie’s moved away?” She’d had an arrangement with Annie, who also worked at Dunnings but on a different shift, to look after Tony while she was at work. Now Annie was married, and as from Monday would be living miles away in Fazakerley in her new husband’s house. It was one of the reasons that had prompted Eileen to move to Melling where Dunnings was only a few minutes’ walk from the cottage. “I don’t want him shoved from pillar to post while I’m at work,” she went on. “He needs somewhere safe and regular to go when I’m on late shift, particularly when there’s a raid.” It was useless to rely on Francis, who would almost certainly return to the old routine of spending his evenings at Corporation meetings or in the King’s Arms. Anyroad, she would prefer Tony had as little as possible to do with his dad.
“I’ll lend a hand when I can, luv, but I’m on shifts meself, and I’ve just taken up firewatching on the docks.
“Fact, I should be there now ‘case the siren goes. I’ll make me way the minute I’ve had a quick pint.’
Eileen looked worried. “I can’t ask our Sheila. She’ll see to his meals and makes sure he gets off to school with Dominic and Niall, but they’re already crammed like sardines in the cupboard under the stairs during the raids.” It had always been her worst nightmare when she was at work and in the relative safety of the underground shelter, imagining Pearl Street being bombed and Tony killed. But it was merely another terrifying aspect of the war shared with all the other men and women in the factory who’d left their families at home.
“We’ll try and sort something out tomorrow,” Jack said. “In the meantime, I’d better be off.” As he was about to leave, he turned, his face once again flushed scarlet.
“By the way, when Francis went upstairs, I suggested he use the back bedroom from now on. I thought that’s what you’d prefer.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she murmured gratefully. She’d sworn she’d never sleep with Francis Costello again. In fact, she felt convinced she would kill him if he tried anything now he was back. Even so, she’d been dreading broaching the subject when bedtime came. For over a year, she and Tony had slept in the front bedroom - on the clear understanding he was only there to protect her from enemy attack!
The front door closed and in the ensuing silence she could actually hear the sound of Francis snoring. She put her hands over her ears to shut out the noise. Never, in her wildest dreams, she thought dejectedly, had she visualised living under the same roof as her husband again.
The music in the street had changed. Now it was Paddy O’Hara playing Danny Boy on his mouth organ. When Eileen peeped through the parlour window, it was virtually dark and nearly everyone had gone in. One or two remained outside, sitting on their steps, and Harry and Owen were still dancing. As she watched, Phoebe called and they went indoors. Then another door closed, and Paddy began to wander along the street towards the King’s Arms, his dog, Rover, faithfully at his heels. Paddy hadn’t known whether it was light or dark since 1917, when he’d lost his sight fighting for his country in the trenches of the Somme.
Eileen sighed as she drew the black-lined curtains, making sure the edges touched completely before she turned the light on, otherwise she’d have an ARP Warden banging on the door, demanding, “Switch that light out? which was all they’d had to do until the raids started a few weeks ago.
The parlour mantelpiece looked very bare. The ornaments and photos were already in the cottage, along with quite a few other personal possessions which she’d been taking along for weeks. She wrestled with the problem of getting them back. She had a key and could collect them in a few weeks’ time, when she was sure Nick had gone.
Or should she leave them?
She went into the living room and took Nick’s card out of her handbag. He’d bought it at Exchange Station and given it to Tony to bring back; a sepia photo of St George’s Hall with just a few words written on the other side in his untidy black scrawl.
We’ll meet again, Nick.
Would they?
You never know, she thought with an unexpected surge of tingling optimism, after a decent interval and once Francis had settled in, she could bring up the subject of divorce again—he’d already had a letter from her solicitor.
Just because he’d been injured didn’t alter the fact he’d done those terrible things in the past. She remembered the way he found fault with every single little thing she did, found dust in places she’d only dusted that morning, and no matter what she cooked for tea, it was either underdone or overdone or something he didn’t like. If in a particularly bad mood, he’d squeeze her shoulder or pinch her arm until she felt like screaming and the marks would stay for days, red and angry and painful.
When you thought about it, really thought about it, things weren’t quite as hopeless as she’d first thought. In fact, she felt slightly ashamed of the way she had overreacted.
She’d behaved as if her life had ended the minute Francis stepped out of the ambulance, whereas perhaps she should have looked upon it more as a delay. It would merely take longer for her and Nick to be together, that was all.
Eileen put the card back in her bag and was beginning to wonder where Tony was when the air-raid siren went. She immediately felt goosepimples rise on her upper arms - it always happened at the sound of the menacing up-and down wail - and hurried to the front door. To her relief, Tony came running out of Sheila’s. She noticed the white shirt which had been bought specially for Annie’s wedding was stained with grease and tomato sauce, and his knees -were filthy. His wire-rimmed glasses were, as usual, perched,on the end of his little snub nose, and his hair, as fine and blond as her own, looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. She felt a rush of love that almost choked her as she stretched out welcoming arms, realising with a pang of guilt how much she’d neglected her son that day.
“Come on, luv. Let’s get under the stairs.” She shepherded him into the narrow cupboard which had recently been completely cleared and an old mattress put on the floor. Not many people used the public shelters which were cold, damp and uncomfortable and, incredibly, didn’t even have a proper door, merely a curtain hanging where anyone with half a brain knew a door should be.
“What about me dad?” Tony asked.
As soon as Eileen had put a match to the nightlight, she closed the cupboard door and they sat down. The enclosed space was rather cl
austrophobic, but Tony didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, so far he seemed to find the raids more exciting than anything and enjoyed the time spent under the stairs. Secretly, Tony wanted the raids to continue until he was grown up so he could become a firewatcher like his grandad, or, even better, join the RAF and fly a Spitfire like Nick did.
Eileen said, “Your dad’s in bed. Let’s see if he wakes up, shall we? Otherwise, we won’t disturb him. Come on, sit on me knee and we’ll give each other a cuddle while there’s no-one else around. Today’s been a day and a half, hasn’t it? It’s nice to have a bit of quiet to ourselves.”
Though “quiet” wasn’t exactly what they were having.
In no time she heard the grim drone of planes approaching, a sound even more menacing than the siren. Then came the answering crackle of ack-ack guns from their side and the thud of explosions in the distance. She hugged Tony close, wondering what on earth the world had come to and wishing Adolf Hitler had never been born.
The raid was surprisingly short. They’d scarcely been there twenty minutes when the All Clear went. “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” she said thankfully. “The Germans must have got tired and gone home.”
“Mam?” Tony sounded slightly querulous. He made no attempt to get off her knee.
“Yes, luv?”
“Is me dad home for good, like?”
“It looks like it, son.”
“But what about Nick? He didn’t half look fed up when I met him at the station and told him you weren’t coming.”
Tony thought he’d never forget the expression in his beloved Nick’s eyes, as if all the happiness had drained out of him and there was nothing left inside.
Eileen said softly, “He’s not the only one fed up, is he, luv? You’re fed up, and I am, too. But,” she went on with a determined effort to be cheerful, “I won’t be fed up tomorrer. And neither will you,” she added sternly.
“Tomorrer’s another day altogether, and I intend to be as happy as a lark.”
