Put Out the Fires

by Maureen Lee

  Tony frowned and his glasses threatened to fall off altogether. Eileen pushed them back with her finger and kissed his nose. “But what about Nick?” he demanded a second time.

  “Nick will understand. It’ll just take a while longer than we thought before we’re all together.”

  “Does that mean we will be—one day?” he said eagerly.

  “Of course we will.

  “Of course we will,” she repeated under her breath. How could she possibly have thought they would never see each other again? She couldn’t give Nick up. They were meant for each other. Even her unromantic dad recognised that fact. “Of course we will.” She pushed him off her knee.

  “Come on, I feel as if I’m in me coffin shut in here. I reckon it’s well past supper time. I’ll make a cup of cocoa. D’you fancy a jam butty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Yes please, Mam,” he grinned.

  “Turn the wireless on,” she said as she snuffed the nightlight out. She glanced at her gold watch, a present from Nick when they were in London. “We’re just in time for the nine o’clock news.” She almost wished she hadn’t listened when the cultured voice of Alvar Lidell announced there’d been another raid on the East End of London. More innocent civilians had been killed, more British planes lost. One hundred and eighty-five German planes were reported shot down, but she felt no jubilation at this news. It was merely a waste of young lives, no matter whose side they were on.

  “Try and find the Forces network,” she said. “Let’s have some cheerful music. And once you’ve eaten your butty, you’d better get to bed. Your dad would have a fit if . . . ”

  She was about to add, “if he knew you were still up,” and bit her tongue. Francis no doubt would be angry if he knew.

  He’d always insisted Tony go to bed at half past six, even if it were the height of summer and no matter what day it might be, and even if all his mates were still playing outside. But there’d be no more of that, she thought grimly. Tony’d go to bed when she said and Francis could like it or lump it.

  Anyroad, if he started laying down the law it would be time for his wife and son to make their departure.

  The phosphorous fingers on the alarm clock showed nearly half past two. Eileen felt convinced she’d never sleep that night. The ticking of the clock got on her nerves.

  She’d never realised it was so loud, almost deafening in the dead of night with not another sound to be heard except Tony’s light breathing next to her. A floorboard creaked, but there were often strange, slight noises in the house when everywhere was quiet, as if the structure’s joints were flexing.

  Eileen turned over for the umpteenth time, but her mind felt like the inside of the damned clock, as if there were wheels and cogs whirring away and her brain was ticking just as loudly.

  She sat up and wished she’d brought her ciggies to bed; she could really do with a fag right now, but couldn’t be bothered going downstairs to fetch them. The room was brightly illuminated by a clear full moon outside. Before getting into bed she’d drawn the curtains back because she hated sleeping in total blackness; nightlights and candles were becoming more and more difficult to get and best saved for emergencies.

  Tony stirred and opened his eyes. When he saw her propped against the headboard, he mumbled, “What are you doing, Mam?”

  “I’m practising sleeping a different way,” she told him.

  “Tomorrer night I’m going to stick me legs up in the air and see how I get on. Now go to sleep. You’re spoiling me concentration.”

  “You’re not half daft, Mam.”

  He obediently closed his eyes. At least the problem of Tony had been sorted out, Eileen thought with satisfaction.

  Mr Singerman had called earlier to say Gladstone and Alexandra Docks had been hit and you could see the smoke spiralling into the sky from Pearl Street. Tony had insisted on having a look, despite being in his pyjamas.

  “You know, Eileen, I’d be only too happy to look after him when you’re at work,” Mr Singerman said when they were back in the house having a cup of tea and Tony was in bed. Francis was still asleep. The and Tony get on famously. He has the makings of a proper capitalist the way he always beats me at Monopoly! I could teach him to play cards and perhaps we could go to the pictures now and then. After he’s gone to bed, I could listen to your wireless until you or Francis came home. I know Francis will be a busy man once he’s back to normal, what with his job and his Corporation meetings.”

  “Oh, would you, Mr Singerman?” Eileen said delightedly.

  The only thing she’d dreaded about moving was the thought of no longer seeing her friends and family every single day. She was very fond of Paddy O’Hara and all her other neighbours, even Agnes Donovan in a sort of way, but Jacob Singerman was the dearest of them all. He was an excitable, vivacious will-o”-the-wisp old man with a halo of silver hair and a penchant for the pictures, which he visited whenever he had a few coppers to spare. She was certain Tony would be enamoured of the idea of spending the evenings with him the weeks she was at work.

  “It would be a pleasure, and I need to start practising my fatherly skills again now it seems my Ruth will be coming home.”

  His old short-sighted eyes sparkled over the half-moon glasses which were perched on the middle of his nose.

  Eileen had never known Ruth. It was more than twenty years since Mr Singerman’s only child had gone to stay with his brother in Austria, and he’d never seen her since. Ruth got married, had children, and corresponded regularly, but once Hitler grabbed Austria in his typically ruthless way, her letters ceased abruptly. Her distraught father could only fear the worst. Until yesterday that is, when the good news arrived out of the blue from a most surprising source; a synagogue in Spain had reported Ruth was safe.

  “I bet you can’t wait to see her,” Eileen said warmly.

  The light died a little in his eyes. “I can’t wait, no, but all the same, I keep worrying what has happened to her husband and the grandchildren I have never met.”

  Eileen squeezed his arm. “Let’s hope they’re all right, too. You’ll know soon enough when she comes home.”

  “You never heard her play the piano, did you, Eileen?

  Oh, she was a marvel, that girl. A virtuoso! She was going to be a concert pianist.” He shook his head mournfully.

  “She will be annoyed when she finds my old piano so out of tune.”

  “She’ll be so pleased to see you she won’t give two hoots about the piano,” Eileen said dismissively.

  After he’d gone, she listened to Saturday Night Theatre, but when the play finished, couldn’t scarcely remember a thing about it. She’d been thinking of Nick and what they would have been doing if only she hadn’t missed the train.

  Francis appeared just after she’d put the kettle on to make a final cup of cocoa, and her heart sank. She’d been hoping he might sleep the night through. “How do you feel?” she asked stiffly.

  “Better than I’ve done in weeks.” He stretched his arms.

  He’d gone to bed almost fully clothed, having merely removed his battledress top, and his khaki shirt was creased. Francis had always managed to appear rather dashing in the cheap, coarse uniform. Annie always claimed he looked a mite like Clark Gable, handsome, with a devil-may-care look in his brown eyes. The bandage, which had become slightly askew, made him appear rather rakish. “It’s nice to kip down in me own home again,” he said.

  “I expect it must be.” The kettle boiled and she went into the back kitchen.

  “Y’know, luv,” Francis called, “I meant what I said when I first came home. Things are going to be a lot better from now on, I promise.”

  I should hope so, she thought grimly. He’d been such a charming man when they first met. She’d been quite carried away by his captivating manner and the compliments which fell from lips which must have kissed the Blarney Stone on more than one occasion.

  On the o
ther hand, the better things were, the more difficult she would find it to get away. Her head swam because everything seemed so complicated. Perhaps things would be clearer in the morning, she thought hopefully.

  She made two cups of cocoa and gave one to Francis, saying, “I think I’ll drink mine in bed. I’ve had a busy day and I’m fair worn out, what with Annie getting married and everything.”

  “Right you are, princess,” he said jovially. “By the way, would you mind putting a pair of me ould pyjamas in the back bedroom? I’ve looked through the drawers, but it’s all Tony’s stuff.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “In fact, tomorrer, I’ll change all the clothes around so’s you’ll have everything to hand when you need it.”

  Sitting up in bed at half past two in the morning, Eileen felt an enormous sense of relief that the sleeping arrangements had been sorted out so amicably - not that she would have given in to pressure. Perhaps Francis really had turned over a new leaf. She was halfway out of bed in order to go downstairs and get her ciggies, convinced she’d never fall asleep without one, -when a floorboard creaked again, then another. She froze, one foot on the floor. Francis was coming upstairs! He’d probably been to the lavatory at the bottom of the yard.

  Eileen jammed a chair under the knob of the bedroom door, just in case, and returned to bed, all desire for a ciggie having gone.

  Francis Costello lay staring at the slightly spotted ceiling in Tony’s room. There were cobwebs in all four corners and dust on the glass lampshade - Eileen had obviously let things slide since he’d gone away.

  From now on, Francis knew he would have to be very clever. It was essential that he get his feet under the table of Number 16 again if he wanted his political ambitions back on course. He’d been rather dismayed at the way Jack Doyle had looked at him with an expression close to disgust, ordering him into the back bedroom in a way that brooked no argument, but Francis was well aware he had the ability to charm the birds off the trees. With a bit of care and some subtle flattery, he’d soon have Jack eating out of his hand again. Jack Doyle virtually owned the local Labour Party and the appointment of a successor to Albert Findlay, the current ailing and elderly Member of Parliament for Bootle Docklands, was within his gift when Albert retired, which he was bound to do before the next election. Jack had promised the gift to Francis, and Francis had never wanted anything in his life as much as the power that such a wondrous gift carried with it.

  He’d actually married Jack’s daughter because a wife and family looked good on a would-be-candidate’s record, though he’d never cared much for women, and Eileen in particular irritated him beyond reason, with her feminine ways and feminine smells.

  In 1938, he’d even joined the Territorials to enhance his reputation. Military experts were of the opinion that war, if it began, would be over in a few months. But the experts had been wrong, thought Francis sourly. More than a year later, the conflict showed no sign of ending.

  In fact it was getting more violent by the day.

  The Army hadn’t been so bad at first. He’d learnt to type and managed to get himself in the Paymaster’s office, but once the Royal Tank Regiment had been posted to Egypt, Francis had been petrified. Not that he’d been involved in the fighting: he’d been safe in Alexandria, well away from harm. But say they’d been overrun by the Eyeries? They couldn’t be expected to ignore him just because he was a clerk. He’d be taken prisoner, or, even worse, killed, because he was in uniform like every other soldier.

  Francis couldn’t recall what he’d said to those two youngsters who’d turned on him and beaten him senseless, because he was drunk out of his mind at the time.

  Newcastle boys they were, arrived only that day, neither more than eighteen. All he could remember was a boot thumping against his head and his head thumping against a wall, and when he came to in the little military hospital he had a feeling he might have made a suggestion that was out of line. Sometimes, when he’d had one over the eight . . .

  At first, there’d been a sense of terrible shame, though this was soon replaced with a feeling of relief when he realised he was going to be discharged. It was worth losing the sight in his eye to get out of the Army. He knew nothing untoward would go down on his military record, because no-one had come forward to identify the two lads who’d beaten him, and the reason for the beating was merely rumour. Under the circumstances, the Army would have no alternative but to give Francis the benefit of the doubt.

  And now Francis Costello was home, a hero to the neighbours, with his good job at the Mersey Docks & Harbour Board waiting for him, as well as his seat on Bootle Corporation. With a bit of deft maneuvering, he and Jack Doyle would soon have their heads together working out what they’d do once Francis got to Parliament.

  Before he knew it, everything would be back as it was before he’d been called up.

  No, not everything! He’d forgotten about Eileen. At the bottom of his kitbag was a letter from a solicitor offering him a choice: either he agreed to divorce his wife promptly on the grounds of her adultery, or she would divorce him for cruelty, leaving Francis with no choice, his reputation to consider, but to go for the first option.

  Adultery! Francis felt physically sick as rage engulfed his body. How dared she? She belonged to him! She was his wife. He’d married her, which meant he owned her, just as he owned his son. A man was nothing if he couldn’t keep his wife and child in line.

  But, thought Francis, fighting down the rage, from now on, he’d have to be more than clever with Eileen. He’d need to be dead smart. There’d not been the time for divorce proceedings to have got under way, so, no matter how much she riled him, he must keep his temper well under control. If he so much as raised his little finger she’d be off bleating to her dad. He’d buy her little presents the way he’d done when they were courting, make her see a divorce made no sense because she already had the perfect husband.

  Chapter 3

  Monday was a day of intermittent sunshine and showers with a hint of autumn already in the air. The watery sun had passed its peak in a pale cloudy sky as the Dunnings bus carrying workers for the afternoon shift passed through the heavily built-up areas of Bootle and Wilton Vale. When it reached the countryside, it was like entering a completely different world, Eileen thought. The grass on Aintree Racecourse looked particularly green and fresh; it felt ages since she’d seen it, yet it had only been a few days!

  They bumped across the little hump-backed bridge over the stream that ran by Dunnings and she looked eagerly through the window, just in case, you never know, Nick might be waiting at the side door where they always met, if only to wave, but there was no sign of him.

  Dunnings had produced turbo engines for many years, and the original main building was solid and brick built. Since 1938, when it turned to making parts for aeroplanes, extensions had been haphazardly added, flimsy, rather ramshackle affairs.

  Eileen clocked in, then hung her coat in her locker, changed into a pair of navy-blue drill overalls and tied the regulation triangle of material turban-wise around her head, making sure every single hair was tucked inside, even her fringe. The women were frequently warned of the dangers of leaving their hair exposed and the horrific consequences which could ensue if it got caught when bending over the lathe.

  She made her way towards the workshop where twenty centre lathes stood in rows of five. The building was one of the newer ones and the high corrugated iron roof turned the place into an oven in the summer. During the cold months, everybody shivered. Most of the women were already standing behind their machines, some having a quick smoke before the hooter sounded, the rest already hard at work. As far as they were concerned, they were working for the Government and therefore against Hitler, and were more than happy to begin work before the official time.

  Instead of going to her own lathe, Eileen turned right and walked along a narrow corridor, past a row of glasswalled offices. She paused at the end office, where a woman was sitting at a desk, he
r head bent intently over her work. In answer to her knock, the woman looked up and smiled, and Eileen went in.

  “Hallo, there,” said Miss Thomas. “I suppose there’s no need to ask what sort of weekend you had. I expect it was perfect.”

  Miss Thomas was the Women’s Overseer, a diminutive, birdlike woman in her early forties. When Eileen had first started, she’d resented her obvious upper-class demeanour, the plummy accent and the way she referred to the women as “her girls”, but as she grew to know her better, she realised Miss Thomas genuinely cared for the women in her charge. Having left her solicitor husband, a man even more violent than Francis, and reverted to her maiden name, she’d been advising Eileen how to go about the divorce.

  “I’m afraid the weekend didn’t turn out as expected,”

  Eileen said wryly. “I thought I’d better tell you - me husband’s home.”

  “Oh, dear!” Miss Thomas’s face fell. “What happened?”

  Eileen described the events of the past two days in detail, finishing, “He’s gone to a military hospital in Runcorn today to have the bandage removed.” On Sunday the house had been more like a station as word got round Francis Costello was back, with neighbours and old friends popping in by the minute to see him.

  Miss Thomas frowned. “I didn’t realise he was a fighting man. I thought he had a desk bound job.”

  “He did,” Eileen nodded, “but as he explained yesterday, he volunteered to take some important papers to one of the officers at the front and the car ran over a mine - the driver was killed. I suppose it was a brave thing to do. After all, he didn’t have to do it.”

  “What happens now? I take it moving to the cottage is out for the moment?”

  “Only for the moment,” Eileen said firmly. “Nick’ll be waiting for me at dinner time. We’ll decide what’s best to do then.” It seemed incredible now to think she’d actually decided to give him up. She couldn’t wait to see his face when she told him everything had changed.

  “I hope your husband doesn’t give you any problems in the meantime.”