Put Out the Fires

by Maureen Lee

“What do you mean?”

  “Since I came to work here, one of my most vivid memories is being called to the First Aid Room by Sister Kean. Apparently, you’d fainted at your machine and when she undid your blouse, your neck was red raw and bruised.” She gave a wry smile. “You wouldn’t tell me what had happened, but subsequently I learnt your; husband had tried to kill you the day before, the same husband with whom you are now having pleasant little chats!”

  “Jaysus!” Eileen groaned. “You must think I’m dead stupid.”

  “Of course I don’t,” Miss Thomas said quickly. “I probably understand more than most women would.”

  Miss Thomas had walked out of her marriage for the sake “, of her sanity, with no alternative but to leave her three daughters behind. ‘My own husband behaved abominably, but on the rare occasions he treated me like a human being, I felt supremely grateful even though I knew it wouldn’t last. Do you think it will last with Francis?’

  “I don’t know. Sometimes, I wonder if the accident has changed him for the better. Other times, I think he’s just putting it on, the way he did when we were courting.”

  “But even if it’s the latter, it’s hard to resist, isn’t it?”

  Eileen nodded fervently. “Awful hard! I’ve got meself into a terrible muddle.”

  Miss Thomas stared down at the solicitor’s letter, “What I think you should do,” she said slowly, “is ask yourself this question: if Francis stays the way he is, if he never returns to being the person he was before, do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

  Eileen’s smooth cream brow creased into a frown. “I never think about the future,” she confessed. “At the moment, I just treat each day as it comes, what with the raids and losing Nick. All I want is for the war to stop and the killing to end.”

  “And when that happens, where does Francis fit in?”

  “Nowhere,” Eileen said simply.

  “In that case,” Miss Thomas said crisply, “I think you should reply to this letter by saying you still wish to proceed, but would like matters held in abeyance for the moment.”

  “Would you mind writing that down?”

  As Miss Thomas began to scribble on a notepad, she said, “You’re a softhearted person, Eileen, and probably feeling very vulnerable at the moment, but I think in a few weeks or months your head will clear and, who knows, you might see Francis for what he really is. He probably hasn’t changed at all.”

  “That’s what I keep telling meself when I’m at work.

  Once I get home, I don’t know what to think.”

  Miss Thomas ripped the sheet out of her pad and handed It to Eileen along with the letter. “Continue to treat each day as it comes, my dear. I think that’s what we’re all doing at the moment.” She smiled sadly. “After all, none of us can be sure if we or our loved ones will be alive by tomorrow.”

  Which was only too true, thought Eileen, as she began to scrub the rolling pin. Only the other day, the Harrisons, who ran the coalyard at the end of the street, had learnt another of their grandsons had died in the fighting in North Africa, and a girl she’d gone to school with had lost her husband at sea.

  “Snowy doesn’t want a gas mask,” Tony said disappointedly, as he came in from the yard carrying a shoebox and a recalcitrant kitten struggling to get a brown paper bag off its head.

  “I’m not surprised, poor little thing! Perhaps a gas mask isn’t such a good idea, you’re suffocating him. He’ll go back to the bomb site where he came from if you don’t leave him alone.”

  “I’ll take him over to me Auntie Sheila’s to show Dominic”

  “No!” Eileen said sharply. “Let Snowy be for a while.

  He’s probably tired. Anyroad, your dinner’ll be ready in a minute.”

  “Can I just go and tell Dominic, then?”

  “All right, but don’t be long.”

  Tony raced out of the back way. Eileen put the shoebox in front of the fire and placed the kitten inside. The tiny furry body was no heavier than a feather. “Now, you go to sleep,” she said sternly. “I bet you’ve been through a lot recently, but you’ve found a good home so don’t blot your copybook by making a nuisance of yourself straight away.”

  Snowy promptly tipped the box on its side and began to play with a scrap of paper. Eileen sat on the floor and picked him up. She placed him on her chest, where he stared at her fixedly with huge blue eyes.

  “You’re a pretty little thing for a feller,” she told him. For the next ten minutes she played with the kitten, forgetting all about the housework which still had to be done. A key sounded in the front door and she scrambled guiltily to her feet.

  “You’re a terrible time waster, Snowy,” she whispered.

  There were voices in the hall. Francis had brought someone home. Eileen’s face fell when a young man with heavily brilliantined blond hair and a fresh cherubic face entered the room. Rodney Smith was a rent collector with Bootle Corporation and Eileen had always loathed his smarmy, ingratiating manner. It was with Rodney that Francis had gone drinking to some club or other in Liverpool every Saturday night, Francis, at least, returning dead drunk and completely unbearable. She’d rather hoped the friendship had died the death once Francis was home again. But it seemed it hadn’t!

  Francis came in beaming and carrying a bunch of magnificent bronze chrysanthemums which he handed to her with a flourish. He’d had his glass eye for several weeks and you’d never know it wasn’t real except when he looked sideways and only one eye moved.

  “They’re lovely, Francis,” she murmured dutifully.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Thought they’d brighten the place up a bit, like,” he said. “I met Rodney on the way home. There’s no need to make us a cup of tea. We’ll go in the parlour in a minute for a glass of Johnny Walker and a chat about old times.”

  “How are you, Eileen?” Rodney asked in his squeaky voice that never seemed to have broken, despite the fact he was well into his twenties.

  “Fine,” she answered briefly. “I thought you’d have been called up by now.”

  “I failed me medical. It appears I’ve got pigeon toes.”

  “He’s not Ai,” her husband said jocularly. “Not like me.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Francis suddenly snarled, “What the hell’s this?” He was staring down at Snowy, who’d begun to attack the laces on his shoes. He moved his foot out of the way irritably.

  “Our Tony found him on a bomb site,” Eileen explained.

  “He’s called Snowy.”

  “You know I don’t like cats.” His handsome sallow face twisted into a scowl. It was the first time she’d seen him scowl since he’d come back, and she wondered if Rodney Smith wasn’t already having a bad influence.

  “I didn’t, actually, but I’m afraid he’s here to stay, Francis,” she said firmly. “I’ve already promised Tony.”

  “Have you now!” He sounded more than a little annoyed.

  She took the flowers into the back kitchen and began to hunt for a vase. There were times when she almost wished Francis would do something or say something which would disgrace him forever in her eyes and she would no longer be in this peculiar state of limbo, not knowing whether she still detested him or not. Perhaps Snowy would be the catalyst which would push him over the edge and give her an excuse to end the marriage once and for all.

  On the other hand, perhaps not. When she went into the living room with the flowers in a vase, Francis had recovered his good humour completely, and both he and Rodney were throwing balls of paper for the kitten.

  There was no way of knowing whether Francis was doing it to impress her, or had Snowy now captured the hearts of the entire family?

  “He’s quite a nice little thing,” Francis said. “I suppose he might have been put down if someone else had found him. So, how’s your day been, princess?”

  “Busy.” Saturdays were always busy, trying to catch up on the work there hadn’t be
en time to do all week.

  “A woman’s work is never done, eh?” Rodney said with a smarmy smile. Eileen ignored him.

  “The plumber’s coming Monday with the bath,”

  Francis said. “Rodney’s offered to arrange it for us.”

  “What time? I’m on mornings.”

  “In that case, I’ll ask one of the neighbours to let him in.

  I’ll sort the washhouse out tomorrow and give the walls a lick of distemper. There’s plenty left of that blue I did the kitchen with.”

  “Thank you, Francis.”

  “Don’t thank me, princess. I’m doing it for all the family. By the way, I’ve got another present for you.” He took an envelope out of his pocket. “There’s a dinner dance at the Blundellsands Hotel on Christmas Eve. I’ve bought us two tickets.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that!” she said quickly. She had no wish to go out with him socially. “I -wouldn’t like to leave Tony, not on Christmas Eve,” she added by way of excuse.

  “Tony can go to your Sheila’s, and we needn’t staylate,” he said coaxingly. “We can be home by midnight.”

  “But what if there’s a raid?”

  “Everyone thinks the raids’ll be over by Christmas. We won the Battle of Britain, didn’t we? According to the papers, we’ve nearly turned the corner.”

  “That’s right,’Rodney concurred.

  “I’m not sure, Francis,” Eileen said hesitantly. Yet it seemed churlish to refuse when he was doing his damnedest to please her.

  “Come on, princess. Buy yourself a new frock, or get Brenda Mahon to make you something really posh. Get your hair done! It’ll be a nice change. After all, you work really hard all week. It’s about time you had a bit of enjoyment out of life.”

  Oh, he knew how to get round her, did Francis Costello! He was smiling at her with genuine warmth, as if making her happy was more important to him than anything else in the world.

  “All right,” she said grudgingly, though wished she could take the words back when Rodney Smith said, “I’ve got tickets for me and me mam. That means we can all go together.”

  She dreaded to think what Sheila would say when she found out. On the other hand, it would be nice to have a new frock, and she might well ask Brenda Mahon to make it.

  Sheila was wrong about one thing, though. The day would never come when it would seem as if Nick had never existed. Eileen thought about him every single day, but it wasn’t the wonderful times they’d had together that she remembered—the weekend in London, the night in the cottage before he went away when they’d made love on the grass - it was the last time she’d seen him that she couldn’t get out of her mind. It hadn’t been her darling Nick sitting on the sofa looking at her with such hard, unsympathetic eyes, but someone else altogether, a man she’d never known. Apparently, she didn’t come up to this man’s exacting standards.

  But, Eileen argued to herself, she’d done what was right and proper for her. Surely he knew her well enough to realise she had no choice in the matter?

  Every time she heard We’ll Meet Again on the wireless, she switched it off, feeling a mixture of resentment and terrible sadness. If only she hadn’t missed the train! She and Tony would be living in the cottage, miles away from Francis Costello, the Irish wizard, who was gradually drawing her back into his sticky, silvery web.

  Francis was about to go into the parlour with Rodney.

  He paused. “What’s the matter, princess?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “Why did you ask?”

  “You just sighed, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Eileen said. “After all, what’s there to sigh about?”

  Brenda Mahon’s parlour always reminded Eileen of Aladdin’s cave. A treadle sewing machine stood in the middle of the room and every surface was covered with great swathes of sometimes quite glorious material.

  Numerous garments in various stages of completion hung from the picture rail. Boxes of thread, pattern books and several pairs of scissors were jumbled together on the mantelpiece and women’s magazines scattered all over the floor. A full-length mirror reflected the colourful chaos, making the room appear bigger and even brighter.

  Brenda was a dressmaker who made clothes for some of the wealthiest women in Liverpool. They came from far and wide to be measured and fitted by someone who’d never had so much as a sewing lesson in her life, yet the clothes that emerged from the chaos of her parlour not only fitted perfectly, but they were beautifully made; the seams double stitched, the lining perfect, the collar lying better than anything bought from a shop. Sometimes, little extra individual touches were added, such as a flower made from the same material sewn to the waist, a scalloped neck, an embroidered cuff.

  The rates Brenda charged were variable, depending on where the client lived. Those from “toffy-nosed addresses” paid double what she charged her friends and people from less salubrious places. Even then, she was far cheaper than most dressmakers, but Brenda didn’t just sew for money, but for love. She was never happier than when she sat at her machine, treadling away as she made a dance frock for some posh lady from Calderstones, or something out of a piece of leftover material for one of her friends.

  Brenda was equally good with knitting needles or a crochet hook, and she’d turned out scarf and glove sets too numerous to count for the Red Cross during the air-raids she could turn a thumb in the dark.

  “That’s lovely,” Eileen said when she went into the parlour. A length of maroon panne velvet was being rapidly fed through under the foot of the machine.

  “It’s for a cloak. I’m going to line it with cream satin.”

  “It should look lovely. I expect you’re booked up till Christmas.”

  “Till next February, actually,” Brenda said through the row of pins she kept conveniently in her mouth. “But not for me mates. What are you after, Eil?”

  “I’m not sure. I just wanted to look through your pattern books.”

  “Here’s the Simplicity. The Vogue’s on the mantelpiece.”

  It was something of a mystery how Brenda had acquired the books, because she never bought a pattern, being able to cut the material out by merely looking at the picture.

  Eileen moved a length of bottle-green taffeta out of the way and began to leaf through the pattern book.

  “Is it for a special occasion?” asked Brenda.

  “Francis has got tickets for a dinner dance in Blundellsands on Christmas Eve,” Eileen replied, knowing this news would reach her sister before the day was out.

  “Xavier and me took the girls to Blundellsands once,” said Brenda. “I remember there was a tent on the beach.”

  She cocked her head sideways and said thoughtfully, “I’ve fancied making a tent ever since.”

  There was a lifesize head-and-shoulders portrait of Xavier Mahon on its own specially crocheted mat on top of the wireless in the other room. He was the handsomest man in Pearl Street, or possibly the whole of Bootle, with exquisite matinee-idol looks. The picture showed him staring romantically into the far distance, his smoky dark eyes brooding, his lips curved in a mysterious smile. The film star impression was slightly marred when you met Xavier in the flesh, because he was short, barely five foot four inches tall, and spoke with a pronounced and rather unattractive nasal twang, as if, people said nastily, he had an ollie stuffed up each perfect nostril.

  Xavier was either unaware or unbothered by any criticism of his voice and stature; everyone agreed he was the most conceited man who ever lived and seemed convinced the sun shone out of his own miniature arse.

  Brenda openly adored him. If she could have sewn herself a husband, she said frequently in his hearing, he would have turned out looking exactly like the one she already had, which only bolstered Xavier’s already massive ego even more. She waited on him hand and foot.

  Xavier didn’t need to strike a match before Brenda had struck it for him. He preened himself in a never-ending variety of Fair Isle and complicated
cableknit pullovers, with sleeves and without, which his wife had lovingly made, for Xavier was a dandy, the Beau Brummell of Pearl Street, whose collection of hats—eleven at the last count—was a source of amusement to most people and of envy to a few.

  Six months ago, Xavier had been called up and was now garrisoned on a wild, remote island in the Orkneys.

  Although she missed him, Brenda -was already used to his frequent absences, as he used to work for the London, Midland & Scottish Railways as a guard, and often spent nights away.

  “Found anything?” Brenda enquired through the pins.

  “Not yet.” Eileen realised she was merely enjoying looking at the fashions rather than choosing something for herself. “Trouble is,” she said, “I don’t know-what I want. If I have something dressy, it might be ages before I have the opportunity to wear it again.”

  “True,” agreed Brenda, “but y’know, Eil, nowadays, with so many women going to dances in uniform, not everyone gets dressed up like they used to. You could have something plain, like a costume or a cocktail dress.”

  Eileen grinned. “I can’t see meself in a cocktail dress!”

  “You know what I mean,” Brenda said placidly. She was the happiest and most contented person Eileen knew and never lost her temper, not even with her most irritating customers who changed their minds after the material had been cut or didn’t buy enough for their chosen pattern.

  Or, even worse, put on weight, or lost it, in between being measured and the final fitting. Her mouselike plainness was perhaps accentuated by the lovely tumbling material she was surrounded with, and her looks were in direct contrast to those of her husband, though everyone agreed that Xavier Mahon wouldn’t have wanted a pretty wife.

  He couldn’t have stood the competition.

  It was the remainder of the house that reflected Brenda’s rather prim and proper self, being as neat as the pins that were so often in her mouth, almost unnaturally so.

  “I’d quite like a costume,” Eileen conceded. She eyed the maroon velvet. “How much a yard would that cost? I wouldn’t mind it in blue.”

  Brenda pursed her lips, losing several pins. “Nine and elevenpence, I reckon.”